MarcoAce week 2014
by Stuff'nStuff
Summary: My addition to MarcoAce week 2014. Themes for each chapter will be the chapter title, and mentioned somewhere in the author's notes. Net rating of T, but specific warnings posted in each chapter.
1. Fire

HOLY SHIT I HAVE JUST REALIZED IT'S MARCOXACE WEEK FUCK I AM SO FUCKED THERE'S NO WAY I HAVE TO LEAVE FOR A SERVICE TRIP ON THURSDAY HOW IN HELL AM I GOING TO BE MISSING TWO DAYS OF THIS GLORIOUS HOLIDAY? NOT TO MENTION MY WRITING TAKES LIKE A FUCKING WEEK EACH CHAPTER MINIMUM WHAT THE SHIT I AM FUCKED OH GOD HELP HELP SEND AN AMBULANCE I'VE FALLEN AND I CANNOT GET UP.

But in other news. You know. Besides me panicking. Have the first of seven (hahahaha we'll see if we, like, even get to 3. And I seriously doubt they will be on time. This one is already late) one-shots only tied together due to the existence of this week. Some will be AU. Some will be canonverse. Specific warnings at the top of each. Most will probably be me just fucking _barfing_ on the page because _oh God I thought I'd have more time to prepare and actually think this shit out but holy shit this snuck up on me and it's going to __**kick my ass.**_

K so the theme is _**fire**_ and if you think I'm going to be stereotypical about this you are very, very deceived, dear reader. I make it my life's goal to be unique. You will find no clichés about how "their flames melded, twirling and twining like rose stems" here. So if that is what you are looking for, I advise you to not read this. It is not like that at all. I have read too many stories about the fascination of how their fires compliment each other.

So I'm going to spin that on its head.

You guessed it. This one's tragic as fuck. Sorry I really suck but what can I say tragic plotbunnies maul me while fluffy ones just kind of softly approach so it's generally the tragic ones that get there first and end up destroying my (and yours now) emotions. This is a WWII AU. Please brace your heart.

**This One-Shot contains IMPLIED/INDIRECTLY REFERENCED SEVERE VIOLENCE, SWEARING (There are some derogatory terms in German. I don't speak German so I don't actually know how strong or how offensive they are in that language, but you have been advised), **_**HISTORICALLY ACCURATE**_** ANTISEMITISM (not done to offend, just to accurately portray the time period and setting. I ACTUALLY DID RESEARCH, PEOPLE. However, I understand that this is a sensitive topic for legitimate and unquestionable reasons and as such I put a strong warning here about it) and EVEN MORE REASONS FOR YOU GUYS TO HATE ME.**

Just going to take a minute to interject here that being surrounded by a certain mindset is a form of brainwashing and will eventually have an effect on your own world views and change your perspective if you are steeped in it thoroughly enough and for a long enough time. Just saying. So you might…_maybe_ hate me less.

I actually don't think I can apologize enough for this. I don't think there exists a word in any language to apologize for this. So I'll just be under a rock for the remainder of my life seeking forgiveness.

* * *

Marco remembers the first time he'd ever held a bird in his hands. A dove. It had cooed and regarded him warily, his hands wrapped clumsily around its wings and keel bone. He'd been a child, and, being more terrified of it than was anywhere near rational, had held it too tightly. Its coos had become strained, alarmed, pained, its neck writhing as it struggled to free itself of his grasp. Realizing the extent of its entrapment, it had stared at him, and he had stared back. Blind terror clashed against blind terror, both silently begging the other to stop the torment they were causing.

He hadn't meant to hurt the bird. Not at all. He was terrified _of_ hurting it and that, that was the stinging irony.

His grandmother, soft, warm, had taken the bird from him, smoothing its feathers back into place, soothing it, and explaining to him in her melodic, dialect-bent German that other life was fragile, and as a larger creature it was his _duty_ to always be conscious of his effect on the other creatures around him.

Life was fragile, she'd said. And that made it precious.

She'd returned the dove – now more anxious and ruffled than pained or terrified – to its coop, among its companions. It had instantly inserted itself among the others, a ruckus of disgruntled and harmonic cooing erupting from the enclosure. Marco had watched her, his heart still pounding frantically. He felt his wide, childish eyes grow warm and fill, the first fat, wet tear sliding down his six-year-old face.

But I don't _want_ to be big, he'd said, sobs beginning to break his words to stutters.

His situation now was very, very different from what it'd been then.

His grandmother, the doves, the quiet, rural village where she'd lived, all were gone. Scorched away in the fury and furnace of World War I. He'd been ten years too young to serve then, but he felt the pangs of the war just as much as anyone else.

He'd fallen just as hard as the rest of Germany.

The so-called "Treaty" of Versailles – if it could even be given that title, the German ambassadors, too-weak men sent by their too-weak government, threatened into silence and acquiescence to unfair suppression and debts they'd be paying off for the remainder of the millennia – had nearly starved him, _had_ starved thousands of others like him. Inflation destroyed food availability, and work was impossible to find.

It was easy to see that there was a better option. And that the other countries had been cruel, unfair, and were unfit to wield such power as they did if they were only going to use it to suppress a nation so harshly its people were fighting not to starve in the streets.

But they'd needed a stronger government.

Their old government had betrayed them. It hadn't protected them from the Western Nations who were too sympathetic to France's bitching and too ready to shuck off blame and be done with it. It hadn't fought hard enough in the war. It had abandoned its people to economic meltdown and militaristic defenselessness.

A new, charismatic leader was quick to rise out of extremist right-wing politics.

Marco hadn't been involved in the Fuhrer's rise to power, but as he watched it from afar he saw a man who meant to bring Germany out of desolation and suffering and that was enough for him. Germany deserved better than what the Western powers had heaped upon it. Germany deserved its former power, the might and ingenuity of its people was made for nothing but success.

Germany was_ better_. Better than _any_ of them.

Eager to see his nation succeed to its position of deserved dominance, Marco hadn't hesitated to join the new, Nationalsozialismus army.

The Swastika seemed fitting on his sleeve.

He'd risen through the ranks quickly, his cool, collected demeanor and analytical, tactical mind accelerating him upwards since his first days. He did his work thoroughly, completely, and precisely, and by his third year in the military he'd risen to the rank of Stützpunktleiter. He'd been accordingly re-stationed, given command over a limited region in Poland, and put in charge of a small concentration camp there.

They'd said his impassive nature would be perfect for subduing the lesser races.

It was how he'd gotten to his current situation.

As usual, a fresh dump of _Polacken,_ _Juden_, and other _Unarische_ had arrived, and as usual they were being surveyed, sorted, counted, and divided among the containment areas. After submitting a report on their exact numbers and condition, Marco would be given orders on what percentage was to be put to work and what percentage was to be executed.

To Marco, it was no different than weeding a garden.

The other races had proven to be truly inferior in many ways. They were less than even animals. At least animals could serve a functional purpose. These races did nothing but gobble up resources and oppose Germany in her rightful position. There was no use for _all_ of them. At least some of them could be used for temporary, manual labor Marco wouldn't submit his men to. Those chosen should be honored to be able to serve the Aryan race.

Marco walked the grounds methodically. The _Unarische_ had been divided into groups of a hundred, penned in and away from other groups by soldiers. Some of the younger children were wailing, even some of the adults faintly weeping. Marco tuned out the sound, uncaring for the whimpers of animals. He skirted between the groups slowly, casting his eyes vaguely over each group in turn, picking out those he thought might be good candidates for service.

As it traveled over the faces of the next group, his eyes stuck on one face in particular.

One face that was staring right back at him.

This was an interesting development. The _Unarische_ always avoided his eyes like frightened rabbits, cowering, pathetic, sniveling. But not this young man, no older than twenty. He stared straight back.

His eyes weren't frightened, either. He didn't look scared or even displaced. His gaze was hard, borderline glaring, a dark fire of resolution sharpening his eyes. This was one who hadn't surrendered yet. By the time of their arrival, the _Unarische_ were generally already docile, terrified into submission or resigned to their fate. Not this one. This one was singular among the rest, fascinating, different, a more elite strain, perhaps.

Their eyes hung for a moment more, outraged fury against dispassionate study.

And then Marco moved onto the next group.

As it turned out, the large majority of the selection was unfit for heavy labor, either too young, too old, or too weak. Marco reported as much to his superiors, settling back to await further instruction. The cataloguing had taken the majority of two days, and now evening had fully settled into night.

The moon was almost full, casting the camp in harsh contrast against the shadows. Stars twinkled absently, distant, remote, uncaring. Summer was only just beginning to fade into fall, and though the wind was cool, it didn't come close to comparing to German winters.

Marco set a leisurely pace, for tonight's walk. It was a habit of his, to take at least a short walk outside every night before sleep. The air helped keep his head clear, and the light physical exertion ridded him of any excess energy. The _Unarische_ were all long asleep by now, the hulking barracks they were kept in silent as tombs, only the wind crying slightly as it glanced off of them. Marco paced out to the far end, letting the wind tear itself through the barbed wire fence to caress against his skin.

The world was still, all as it should be. Silence and sterile order reigned. Marco inhaled deeply, allowing his eyes to fall closed for a moment, his whole world seated comfortably and unshakably on its foundations.

A sound, its own defiance against the reign of silence, broke Marco's reverie.

Quiet speech, in one of the foreign, native tongues. Two voices, whispering to each other quietly enough not to wake those who already slept. One sounded young, couldn't have been over 10. The other was also young, but older than the other. Marco aged it between late teens and early twenties, but it was difficult to discern. The older voice hushed the younger, which had spoken first. The younger seemed to protest, Marco even hearing the edge of tears in the voice. For a long moment, the other was silent and Marco wondered if he'd respond at all.

The answer was different than he expected.

"_Numi, numi yaldati,  
__Numi, numi, nim.  
__Numi, numi k'tanati,  
__Numi, numi, nim._

_Aba halach la'avoda–  
__Halach, halach Aba.  
__Yashuv im tzeit halevana-  
__Yavi lach matana."_ The song was quiet, almost sad, but soothing. _A lullaby_, Marco dimly registered. The melody was haunting.

"_Numi, numi yaldati,  
__Numi, numi, nim.  
__Numi, numi k'tanati,  
__Numi, numi, nim._

_Aba halach el hakramim-  
__Halach, halach Aba.  
__Yashuv im tzeit ha cochavim-  
__Yavi lach anavim." _As the melody - soft, tragic, expressive, _human -_ reigned, Marco felt something settle into his chest, something uncomfortable. Something he wasn't familiar with. Something he'd never encountered before.

Self-doubt.

"_Numi, numi yaldati,  
__Numi, numi, nim.  
__Numi, numi k'tanati,  
__Numi, numi, nim…"_ As the last chorus slipped back into wind-tousled silence, Marco found himself almost rooted to the spot. The chill in the wind seemed to have multiplied, settling into his very bones. He found himself staring at nothing, the melody spinning in his head, the foreign, poetic speech bouncing against his ears as he tried to remember the exact pronunciations.

He wasn't sure why he was trying.

When he found himself moving, it wasn't back towards the main building, where he should logically be going. It was towards one of the low enclosures the _Unarische_ were kept in, the one the song had come from. The low, hulking mass seemed darker than he remembered. He drew up beside one of the grungy, stained, tiny windows, peering carefully inside, not sure what exactly he was hoping to see.

The interior was almost pitch black, save for the long stripes of moonlight floating through the windows. The particular ray of moonlight falling through the window Marco was currently looking through revealed the crowded, packed, undoubtedly uncomfortable nature of the interior, the bunk beds crammed to nearly breaking, others forced to the floor. Everyone seemed to be either asleep, unconscious, or dead.

Directly across from the window Marco was standing by were two figures. One was very small, no older than six. He was being held by the other, cradled against his chest protectively. As Marco's shadow interrupted the light falling on the pair, the larger, older one looked up, eyes snapping up to Marco, arms tightening instinctively around the child. Surprise painted his expression for a moment, and Marco was sure, despite his own stoicism, his own surprise showed in some way.

It was the young man from the sorting, the one with the fighter's eyes.

Once again they stared at each other silently, the other's expression morphing from surprise to a smoldering, long-burning kind of righteous fury. Marco, too unfamiliar with anything even close to this, found himself unsure of what exactly he felt in response to discovering the identity of the singer.

Time itself seemed to evaporate in that moment, everything uninvolved in this silent meeting falling into unimportance. Marco stared at the indomitable one, the unbroken one, and was stared right back at in return. Now, it seemed, there was so much less dividing them, somehow. Even if Marco couldn't understand his words, even if the figure before him had been deemed less than human, even if Marco was wearing a uniform, the crimson, black, and white swastika on his arm, and the other wore the thin, striped uniform of an _Unarische_ in its rightful place_._

In that moment, they were equals.

And in that moment, Marco desperately, entirely despised reality.

He wanted to know this fascinating and beautiful creature before him. He wanted to learn the mannerisms, learn the reactions, the laughter, the tears, the rage, the calm. He wanted to understand. He wanted to see what differences – if any – actually stood between them. He wanted to know why he'd been told to hate something this magnificent, this fascinating, this _wonderful_.

But reality was as cruel as it was inescapable, and Marco's orders came in the next morning.

Marco read the words, words he'd read before without emotional response, and for the first time felt something close to physical illness rise in his stomach. He felt dizzy. If he hadn't been sitting down, he might have actually slumped to the ground. He swallowed thickly, rising from his chair, crossing his office, and descending. The movements were automatic, and Marco felt a kind of painful numbness swallowing his mind.

_No new workers required from this sample. Eliminate at earliest possible convenience._

His secretary would have already read the order and passed on the news to the lower ranking officers on site, as he was supposed to. Anything that wasn't listed as top secret was treated as such.

As Marco expected, they'd already been corralled into smaller groups, the first being led out to the hills behind the camp. Marco's stomach felt like it was made of stone, but his legs were automatically carrying him in that direction, as they always had in the past. This was his duty. This was his service to his country. This was what his country needed.

…Right?

Marco hated this doubt, this new, parasitic worm twisting in his brain. Everything used to be so simple. All of this used to be so _easy_. But now Marco wasn't even sure he could get enough air in his lungs to give the order.

The _Unarische_ had been herded into a thin, fairly wide strip against a near cliff, impossible to climb, nowhere to run. Many wept openly, children and adults alike.

For the first time, Marco felt like he could hear them.

The terror was plain in their faces, in their voices, in their tears. Children clutched desperately to parents, siblings, and family members who clutched them back just as desperately, unspoken grief and despair twisting their expressions and body language. The terror and despair was almost overpowering, seeming to waft from the crowd like a plague.

They didn't want to die.

For the first time, Marco felt like that actually meant something.

"_Numi, numi yaldati,  
__Numi, numi, nim.  
__Numi, numi k'tanati,  
__Numi, numi, nim."_ It started off so faint Marco barely caught it, the melody carried to him by the breeze. He felt sick.

"_Aba halach la'avoda-  
__Halach, halach Aba.  
__Yashuv im tzeit halevana-  
__Yavi lach matana._

_Numi, numi yaldati,  
__Numi, numi, nim.  
__Numi, numi k'tanati,  
__Numi, numi, nim."_ The voices around the singer had begun to grow dimmer, whether from shock or from listening was unclear. As other noise dimmed, the melody rose, becoming more audible and distinct.

"_Aba halach et hakramim-  
__Halach, halach Aba.  
__Yashuv im tzeit ha cochavim-  
__Yavi lach anavim!"_ The whole crowd was not only silent by now, but one or two other voices had joined in. They wavered slightly more than the other voice, still fragile with their previous terrified tears, but they sang palpable terror had subsided, not to tranquility, but it wasn't a blind, all-consuming might anymore.

"_Numi, numi yaldati,  
__Numi, numi, nim.  
__Numi, numi k'tanati,  
__Numi, numi nim._

_Aba halach el hapardes-  
__Halach, halach Aba.  
__Yashuv ba'erev im haruach-  
__Yavi, yavi tabuach!"_ Marco saw the soldiers raise their guns. He wished they were pointing at him instead. He felt tears fighting to rise to his face from somewhere in his chest, but forced them back._ If there are more like you in the world, there is no way in hell Germany will ever win this war._

"_Numi, numi yaldati,  
__Numi, numi, nim.  
__Numi, numi k'tanati,  
__Numi, numi, nim."_

_Life is fragile, Marco. That's why it's precious. As a larger, powerful creature, its your responsibility to always be conscious of life around you, since you're strong enough to break it – intentionally or not. _Marco took a deep breath.

"_Aba halach el hasadeh-  
__Halach, halach Aba."_

_But I don't _want_ to be big, granny!_

"_Yushuv ba'erev im-"_

"Fire."

* * *

I guess I'll just do myself a favor and kick myself out of the fandom. Bye. It was nice knowing you all. Sorry for this. Sorry for breaking your hearts during MarcoAce week. Sorry it's a few hours late. Bye guys. Maybe someone can come by and visit my rock sometime. You know. The one I'll be under until the end of the earth.

Lullaby (Dumi, Dumi, a traditional Hebrew lullaby): youtube dot com /watch?v=hnTr6Niq-Ss but I like this recording better, it just doesn't have the full lyrics: youtube dot com /watch?v=F1m09f8u4Xk

_Unarische_ translates to non-Aryan according to my research. _Polacken _translates to Polish person_._ _Juden_ translates to Jew. But my research says all of these terms are kind of derogatory in nature, so allow me to say I didn't put them in to offend anyone. They were for contextual accuracy.

So yeah. Bye. I'll go under that rock now. I bet I'm the only one who wrote something this fucking sad for MarcoAce week. Whoopee. Well…have fun with your feelings I guess. Oh, this is unbetad and unreread because it's almost 2 in the morning and I need to go to sleep. Sorry. I might go through it tomorrow to check for errors, but right now sleep is more important. Bye. Come find my rock sometime if you ever need, like, target practice for mud-throwing. I deserve it. Bye.


	2. Cuddling

Hello and welcome back to those of you who're still around after the travesty that was the first day! I actually have a chance of finishing this one on time, and that's awesome!

Okay so here's the thing: fluff is not my forte. Not even close. So this particular one shot might come off as a little more boring because it's more image based than plot based, because cute, fluffy images inundate my head. Sorry. Not to mention the theme _**Cuddling**_ doesn't exactly lend itself to deep, dramatic, riveting plotlines. So, here you are! I hope you like this significantly more than the first one! No sadness this time, I promise!

_**WHILE YOU ARE READING THIS PLEASE LISTEN TO THIS MUSIC: **_listenonrepeat dot com /watch?v=Veu3bBueVqw

**This chapter contains FLUFFY NOTHINGNESS. **_This takes place in __Rhapsody on a Windy Night__ 'verse (but a bit before that story) but no former knowledge is required._

* * *

Ace always fell asleep at implausible times.

There wasn't a meal he came out of without some kind of condiment or food substance smeared on his face. That wasn't even the worst of it. Marco remembered, once, Ace had managed to actually drop in the middle of a battle. Everyone had panicked, thinking he was injured, or even worse. After the noise of battle had faded, everyone had, of course, picked up on the snoring. Ace had been in a good deal of trouble for that particular stunt. Marco smiled faintly, recalling the memory.

So really, it shouldn't have been a surprise to find Ace asleep again.

Marco took a deep breath, tipping his head back against the mast to stare up at the stars. It was a chilly night, the wind tugging gently against Marco's sleeve like a curious child. The crow's nest afforded a glorious view of the sky and surrounding sea. The moonlight glanced off the wind-ruffled waves, the stars bent, distorted, and shifting on the uneven surface. There was nothing in the vast, infinitesimal piece of the ocean currently visible, and that far dwarfed by the glory and magnitude of the celestial bodies above, and it wasn't hard to feel tiny. Insignificantly miniscule. Marco smiled faintly.

He liked feeling small.

It made him feel like nothing he ever did wrong could really be all that bad, in the grand scheme of things. It didn't matter to the Seven Sisters* whether he messed up every now and again. It was okay for him to be powerless. It was okay for him to make mistakes. The universe didn't ride on his shoulders, and every now and again he needed to be reminded of it.

The wind gusted by again, the chill of it rushing over Marco's skin and he shivered faintly. He reached out carefully, mindful not to shift too dramatically, grabbing the folded up blanket always left out for whoever was on night watch.

He craned his head carefully, looking at the peacefully sleeping figure against him.

Ace had originally come up to the crow's nest to learn more about astrology, about which constellations were currently in the sky, and Marco had been a willing teacher. With Ace sitting beside him, close enough to see from almost exactly the same perspective, he'd carefully traced the outline of Taurus, Aries, Orion, Gemini… He'd been about halfway through describing the intricate mythology of Lepus when he felt a gentle thud against his shoulder.

Ace had fallen asleep against him.

Marco couldn't find it in himself to really blame him. It was late, probably past midnight. He'd only softly smiled, content, letting his eyes drift back out to the sky and his words fall away.

Ace was still perfectly relaxed against him, only his fingers and occasionally his eyes twitching as he dreamed. His expression was peaceful, however, and he seemed somehow more tranquil, more…unguarded than Marco had ever seen him. His lips were parted slightly, his head at a slight angle to rest against Marco's shoulder. He looked…innocent wasn't the right word, nor was childlike. But with the starlight gleaming off his wind-ruffled hair, as black as the sky above them, Marco couldn't help but search for it. Pure, perhaps. Whole.

Perfect.

Something about this moment was indescribably special to Marco. Something about the combination of the immeasurable sky, his own recognized insignificance, and the reassurance that, despite that insignificance, he was still fundamentally necessary to someone else, even if just as a pillow, rooted him so completely in the present, the past and future were both almost inconceivable. This was all he'd ever need, all he'd ever needed. He knew how easily he could get lost in his own existentialism, new how easily and quickly it led him to despair. But in this moment, it didn't cause him despair. Because he had an anchor. A purpose, a reason, free of responsibility, and _not alone._

Marco felt the wind bite more sharply against his cheeks than it had before, and raised a hand to his face. He drew it back in surprise, studying the unbidden tears on his fingers in ambivalent wonder. He inhaled, again surprised by the faint shudder in his own breath, but non-judgmental of it. He raised his hand carefully, delicately brushing a few strands of misplaced hair out of Ace's face. Now that he was conscious of them, he felt each individual tear trailing, hot and beautiful like shooting stars, down his face.

_You're perfect. You're perfect. Thank you so much, for this moment, if nothing else. You've given me a gift that will last an eternity._

The stars seemed to brighten further, and as the barest tips of Marco's fingers brushed against Ace's forehead, he felt something shift. It wasn't earth-shattering. It didn't even really surprise or jostle him in any way. He only dimly, vaguely realized there'd been some kind of change at all, and was unable to even identify what, exactly that change was. Though he couldn't name it, the shift didn't diminish or alter the quality of the moment, merely served to highlight it more, elevate it still further in Marco's memory for reasons he didn't bother to chase down.

It was special, and Marco didn't need reason for it to _be_ special.

He withdrew his hand from Ace's hair, taking the blanket and unfolding it carefully, mindful of how his shoulders shifted under Ace's head as he worked, careful not to jostle him too suddenly or move him too drastically. With careful precision, he draped the blanket gently over his and Ace's form, cocooning them in a bubble of the cotton-lined wool blanket. Ace stirred slightly in his sleep, murmuring a few unintelligible syllables, but resettled, one hand finding its way to Marco's arm, where it gripped the loose material of his sleeve. Marco smiled at him tenderly, watching the wind caress his hair. They were small. They were insignificant, in comparison to the great vastness of the universe. They struggled for control when really, control didn't even exist. They could disappear right now, and Taurus would still stamp his way across the sky.

But they had each other. _Needed_ each other. And that was justification enough.

* * *

Yay for no-plot fluff! I hope you liked it. C: I'm not sure I quite managed to capture it, but just the image of Ace sleeping against Marco under the _beauty_ of a clear, star-filled sky, tiny against the backdrop of the ocean, tinier still against the expansion of the universe… Yeah. I'm not sure if I managed to quite capture all the emotion I wanted, but I think if you read this while listening to the song at the beginning, it _definitely_ adds a _huge_ amount of atmosphere and emotional context. I really hope you elected to listen to the song as well, if you had the ability.

* - the Seven Sisters is one of the names for the star cluster Pliades, a part of the Taurus constellation. They're in…Greek(or Roman. Not sure) mythology. Here's a pic of how they're mythologically portrayed: (WARNING: IT IS A CLASSIC PAINTING, SO THERE IS SOME ARTISTIC NUDITY) wordlesstech dot com /wp-content/uploads/2011/04/seven-sisters-4 dot jpg . The stars, in the sky, look like this: galacticimages dot com /catalog/images/M45 dot jpg (this image is taken using either a _very_ high power telescope or an orbiting photographing telescope, and has been digitally enhanced, slightly, but that is pretty much what they look like in the sky.)

So. Here's to hoping maybe you slightly, _slightly_ hate me less. And dear lord I wish I could draw because if there has ever been an image I want to create, it's this one. Maybe when I actually get good at my art tablet I'll give it a shot. Meh. Whatever. Hope you liked it! Please drop a review! I'm aware it didn't have a plot really _at all_, but I hope, if I did any kind of justice to the emotion I had while writing this, it's a worthwhile reading experience.


	3. Modern AU

PART THREE IS HERE EVERYONE! I'm really sorry to say, but I'm pretty sure I won't be able to upload parts 4, 5, 6, or 7 until I get back from my service trip! I'm going to the Dominican Republic to help build a women's shelter, and I'll be down there for 10 days, leaving Thursday. In preparation for the trip I'm going to be pretty busy tomorrow, so I probably won't be able to write during the day, and I won't be able to stay up super late tomorrow night writing, so my submissions are going to be late. :( Sorry for the delay, but they'll be out as soon as I can possibly have them! Thank you for your patience!

This AU has been in my head for exactly 4 hours. As such, it might not be all that well thought-out. But I really like the concept so I'm going to do my best with it, and although I'm sure I won't be able to fully explore all the possibilities and intricacies this idea has to offer in this one-shot, I'm at least going to brush it because it's actually a pretty rad idea in my opinion and maybe, _maybe_ one day I'll expand upon it. You know. After I finish the SHIT TON OF OTHER STORIES I HAVE GOING RIGHT NOW. It all depends on whether this AU decides to linger in my brain or not.

**This chapter contains FLUFFINESS, VAGUE POSSIBLY INCORRECT LEGAL STUFF, and LANGUAGE.** _This is a contemporary AU where Whitebeard runs a home for troubled youth, generally orphans._

* * *

When Ace walked through the iron gate of _Newgate's Home for Troubled Youth_ his expression had been sour, his mood even more so. He was being led in by his probation officer, the grip around his upper arm firm enough to assure Ace that, no, he was not getting out of this.

The building was nice enough, Ace supposed. It was kind of…quaint. Aged brick, lots of windows, shingle roof… Ace still despised it on principle, of course. But he could admit its aesthetics weren't bad. The front yard was well maintained, each flowerbox in each window distinct from the others, featuring different levels of care, different color palates, and a clear difference in the level of the gardener. The larger garden boxes, tucked to the right of the door, near the corner of the building, were seemingly for vegetables, herbs, and there was a whole box reserved for just strawberries.

The probation officer pushed the doorbell button beside the wide oak door and they stood there, almost awkwardly. Silent. Ace was pretty sure the probation officer didn't really know how to deal with him, not that _he_ was particularly bothered by the officer's apparent discomfort. Ace had never understood what people really meant by 'awkward silences.' How could a silence be awkward? A silence just…was. It didn't have emotion or intonation in and of itself. Only the people involved could be awkward, as was being clearly displayed by the body language of the officer beside him. Whatever. Fuck him. Ace didn't feel like communicating purely to make the man beside him more comfortable. Or maybe it'd make him even less so? Ace always found it hard to predetermine what peoples' reactions would be.

It had been determined that, after being caught a fourth time for vandalism, the normal foster system just wasn't cutting it for Ace. Not that it ever really had, and he could have told you that from a very young age.

Well, so to speak.

Seeing as Ace couldn't actually do that.

You know, tell you stuff.

…

It was a bit of an off-putter for possible adoptive parents.

The door was finally pulled open, hesitating on its hinges in a way that Ace had been told indicated that it was making a sound. A _squeak_, whatever the hell that meant. Ace's eyes flicked off the door hinge, landing instead on the person standing in the now open doorway. He glared faintly.

The man was fairly old, laughter lines etched loosely into his face, crows' feet nipping the corners of his eyes. He had a stern jaw line, sun-weathered skin, and a mouth that looked equally likely to frown as laugh. He was tall, and despite his apparent age, there was still power in his frame. His hands were calloused, yet didn't look unnecessarily brutal. The mustache across his face was undoubtedly the most striking feature, though. Crescent-shaped, clearly waxed into that position, pure white, and _large._ The nickname 'Whitebeard' didn't seem quite so illogical now.

The man's – Whitebeard, Edward Newgate, the proprietor of the home – body language was relaxed. There was no hostility, no guardedness, no unfamiliarity. He'd clearly been in this situation before. Or at least thought he had. Ace wondered how quickly he'd find himself booted from this place. It wouldn't be the first time.

He was foreign. Incomprehensible. Silent, and thus unsettling. _Normal_ people weren't used to silence and didn't know how to handle it. Didn't know how to handle _him._ Him and his _defects_ made other people uncomfortable, and he had no doubt this stay would be as temporary as all the others. Not that he was particularly upset or surprised by this fact.

He watched as the man in front of him began speaking to the probation officer, whose body language suggested his relief at being around another _functional_ human again. Ace found his lip curling in a small snarl of disdain and dislike. Fuck him. And fuck this guy, who pretended like he was in _control_ of Ace. Nobody controlled him. He was just as human as everybody else. Just as autonomous.

Ace saw those two, defining words pass the officer's mouth, feeling a sneer come on, waiting to see the obvious shock and unwarranted and unwanted pity morph the other's face.

"…_Deaf…Mute…_"

Against Ace's expectations, the man didn't even flinch. There was no widening of the eyes, no faint parting of the lips, nothing. He didn't even blink. Ace scanned him up and down again, searching for some kind of tell, the tell that _had_ to be there, to show just how this information about his new charge was affecting him.

Nothing.

Ace could only read that continued relaxation, ease, and mild curiosity. Finally, the conversation seemed to resolve somehow, the man stepping aside and the probation officer leading the two of them in.

The front room opened to some kind of living room. Wide windows opened to the backyard, worn looking furniture – armchairs, couches, a stained and scuffed coffee table, even an old upright piano against one wall – spaced along the floor. Early afternoon sunlight streamed through the windows, casting the wooden floor in wide swaths of light and shadow. The silhouettes of trees in the backyard were outlined on the floor, their shadows dancing in whatever soft wind was outside.

He was led from this room, into one adjacent to the living room, near the front door. This room was an office, and Ace was led and none-too-gently tugged into a chair in front of the desk, the probation officer sitting in one beside him, Whitebeard taking the large, worn office chair behind the desk. He and the probation officer were talking again, and again Ace didn't bother to read the conversation, settling for glaring petulantly out the window.

It was a surprisingly short time before Ace's attention was drawn back to the room by the probation officer standing, saying a last few words, and leaving. Ace waited until he was gone before shifting his gaze back to the man in front of him. He was watching Ace, unmoving, and Ace stared back dispassionately. Time passed. The clock on the wall was 'ticking' as Ace had been told, seconds flowing unheeded into minutes. Ace didn't look away. He wouldn't be the one to break this pseudo staring contest. Whitebeard's eyes weren't hard, weren't a glare, but weren't soft. They were appraising. Firm. Sure.

He opened his mouth and Ace, recognizing he was about to be spoken to, began automatically paying more attention, his eyes snapping to his lips despite himself.

"I'm not going to coddle you. You're a young man, not a child. You don't need someone to hold your hand. And I'm not going to. You're practically an adult, so you're going to act like one, and in response I'm going to treat you like one." He could tell, based on expression and posture alone, that Whitebeard was firm. Unyielding. "You're different, sure, but you're not worse off for it and you're not broken or hurt in any way. So you will be treated just like everybody else. If you ever need me to repeat something I say because you didn't catch it the first time, that can be arranged. I will even write what I say if you ask me to. But I don't know sign language, and I can't learn it overnight. You and I will be coexisting, and you're very welcome here, but I'm not going to tiptoe around you. You've made mistakes that need to be addressed. Your track record isn't exactly sparkling. You don't get a free pass because you're different because _everyone's_ different and you're just as human as the rest of them and therefore _I know you can be better._ I can't make you better, Ace, but I can give you a second chance. I hope you'll take it." Ace was sure his expression showed his bewilderment. Never, at any point in his life, had _anyone_ said anything like this to him. "I'll show you to your room. Your roommate is at school right now, but he'll be home in about an hour." Wait, _roommate?!_ But Whitebeard was already standing, coming around the desk. He passed Ace, and Ace jolted to his feet, whirling to face him, eyes wide.

But Whitebeard was moving at a fairly fast pace, and he'd already reached the door by the time Ace was standing. It was all he could do to keep up at a speed-walk. As they walked, crossing the living room and around a corner to a staircase Ace hadn't been able to see on the way in, Ace thought about where he was now. The shock of Whitebeard's speech had faded somewhat, and in it was rising Ace's usual lifeblood of defiance and bitterness. Like hell he was going to be treated the same as everyone else. It was all a lie. Nobody ever saw _him_ past his differences. He was little more than his _disabilities_ to the people around him. This 'Whitebeard' would be no different. So Ace would shut him out.

Avoiding communication was practically an art form for him at this point. His startling silence could unsettle anyone, and he'd been informed that this, coupled with his piercing eyes, was quite disquieting.

Finally they reached a door, Whitebeard stopping only long enough to push open the white painted wood. The room within was simple. Not plain, but not ornate. Two twin beds were against either wall. One was made precisely, the sharp blue comforter tucked tightly into the mattress, not the tiniest wrinkle on its surface. The pillows rested against the headboard, and the only thing slightly out of place was the leftover mug on the nightstand. The dresser for this side of the room rested beside the door, opposite the window, below the foot of the bed. It was white, and the only thing resting on its surface was a small stack of books. The other side of the room was similarly immaculate, but there were no signs of life in it. The bed was unmade, the sheets and a plain white comforter folded near the foot of the bed. A caseless pillow rested at the head of the bed, and the nightstand was bare, devoid of the faint nicks of use present on the other one. The dresser on this side was pushed against the right wall instead of against the back wall, below the foot of the bed. A small mirror hung above it, reflecting the door of the small closet on the other side of the room.

It was the walls that really caught Ace's attention, though.

All along the left, occupied side, above the bed, were small, ovular splotches of color. The wall itself was a very, very pale blue color, like the horizon at noon, but the splotches were in every shade mountain wildflowers could assume. Together, they formed a kind of dissolving swoosh of color, starting near the head of the bed where they were tightly condensed, overlapping even, before flowing towards the door, like petals caught in a wind. The further they went, the more they dissipated and spaced apart they became before fading out entirely to resume the plain blue color again. It was reminiscent of Monet or Van Gogh almost, the bright colors and abstract, formless nature very absorbing.

Ace hadn't been aware he'd been spacing out until he felt a tap on his shoulder. He tensed slightly, attention snapping to the source. Whitebeard met his gaze evenly, giving him only a moment to settle before speaking. His expression was different than before, almost amused, and there was an underlying fondness Ace didn't miss.

"Marco's in his impressionist phase right now. Two months ago it was sumi-e painting. You can ask him to show you his work, when he gets home, if you'd like. I'll leave you to get settled, and I'll tell Marco to come introduce himself when he gets home. If you have any questions or need anything, I'll be in my office." Whitebeard didn't smile, but Ace saw the corners of his eyes tip up slightly. Without a backwards glance, he turned back around, heading out the way he'd come and shutting the door gently behind himself.

* * *

By the time Marco got home, Ace had already made up his bed and settled what few possessions he had into his space. He'd been just about to invade the closet and see if any space in it had been reserved for him when he saw the door open out of the corner of his eye.

His roommate walked through, and somehow, despite the fact that he hadn't had any expectations, his roommate was definitely different than them. He was blonde, his face relaxed almost to the point of boredom. He had a backpack slung over one shoulder, a purple flannel, the sleeves rolled up to the elbow, unbuttoned and hanging loosely from his frame, over a plain white t-shirt. He wore grey-wash jeans and dark converse, scuffed with wear.

His eyes were the most stunning shade of blue Ace had ever seen.

Before Ace was even conscious of the action, his hands were in motion. _You have the most beautiful eyes._

Ace almost punched himself in the face.

His roommate's eyes flicked to the gestures, and he blinked once, twice, in quick succession, before his eyes moved back to Ace's face.

"Sorry," he said, clearly enunciating for ease of reading but not offensively over-pronouncing the words. "I don't understand, yoi." _Wait, what?_ Ace felt his eyebrows furrow slightly in confusion. He must've misread that last word. His roommate, oblivious to his confusion, shucked his bag onto his bed before crossing to Ace and extending his hand.

"I'm Marco. I'll be your roommate, yoi." Ace felt a twinge of frustration accompanying the confusion. _The fuck is that word? I swear I've never misread a word more than once. _After a moment's hesitation, he also extended his hand, shaking Marco's firmly. Marco's fingers were long and smooth, an artist's precision inherent in their every nuance. "Would you mind writing your name for me so that I know what to call you?" Ace blinked, but found himself complying, reaching to the back pocket of his pants to withdraw the small notepad and pencil he carried.

_I'm Ace,_ he wrote. Marco smiled slightly, and Ace knew he was irrevocably fucked.

The probation officer _really _should have told Whitebeard he was gay so he wouldn't get such a hot roommate.

* * *

It had been about four months since Ace arrived. He'd met the others, and by now his hostility had gotten old, even for _him._ They were all kind, friendly, some more rambunctious than others. Ace was beginning to notice small things, little nods towards his existence. Consideration. The subtitles were essentially the only setting the TV in the living room was ever on, pens and paper were left lying around in common areas like the kitchen and living room for when he was in his pajamas (no pockets to carry pads of paper and pencils) or just wasn't carrying paper with him, and everyone eventually assumed the same clear, enunciated speech Marco had used since day one.

The first explicit change came one Friday after school.

Ace was lying on the couch, English reading assignment in hand, when he'd seen movement out of the corner of his eye. His attention instantly moved to that, observing Marco as he marched with firm purpose towards the living room, dropping his backpack to the floor beside the chair he then seated himself in, across the coffee table from Ace.

"Teach me" was all he said, staring at Ace expectantly. Ace stared back, shock widening his eyes and raising his eyebrows. After a long stretch, Ace hesitantly set his book down and raised his hand.

_This?_ he signed. Marco's eyes instantly snapped to the gesture, eyes keen with concentration.

"That. What does that mean, yoi?" Ace swallowed, setting his book down and sitting up fully, turning to face Marco. There was something rushing in his chest, something unfamiliar.

Elation.

He'd stayed with a _lot_ of people over the years. He'd been passed from home to home many times. Maybe every now and then some of his caretakers would learn a few words for their own benefit, for ease of communication or to possibly have more impact on Ace, but it'd been nothing like this. Marco looked like he was ready to tackle the whole language. Looked like he wanted to master it by the time the sun rose tomorrow. Like it was something fundamentally, irreplaceably important_._

The afternoon passed in near complete silence, but dozens of words were tossed back and forth. Ace would write a word, then demonstrate the gesture. Marco would try to replicate it as perfectly as he could, concentration bending his face. Ace would occasionally correct the small, far-between mistakes Marco would make. As others began arriving home from classes and part-time jobs, it became a group activity. Even Whitebeard was participating by the time the sun set.

The rush of pure joy in Ace's chest only beat stronger as the night wore on.

To be honest, Jozu and Thatch were absolute _trash_ starting out, Ace heaving in silent laughter when Thatch accidentally signed 'I'm a fuzzy wheelchair' instead of 'I'm a good cook.' How in _hell_ he'd exactly managed to get _that_ mixed up was beyond Ace. He hadn't even _taught_ the signs for fuzzy _or_ wheelchair.

They stayed up long into the night, the group vibrant and golden with laughter, joy, and companionship. Ace taught more words than he knew they would remember by morning, but the look of eager wonder and desire to learn never faded from their faces. It was around 3 AM when Whitebeard finally – reluctantly – shooed everyone to their rooms to get some sleep. Ace had watched them all leave fondly, the almost painful force of sheer joy in his chest not fading as they all – some more clumsily than others – signed each other goodnight. Whitebeard had been the last one Ace had seen before returning to his and Marco's room. He hadn't signed anything, but he'd smiled at Ace, eyes and face soft with fondness.

And Ace had smiled back, signing a small 'goodnight' before shutting the door.

The lights were off, to Ace's surprise. He was sure he'd seen Marco enter before him, but despite his apparent presence the room was dark. The only light entered from the window, which led out onto a slope of the roof over the porch. Moonlight pooled under the window, the shades drawn away. A gentle breeze puffed in, cool and scented with dew. Ace blinked. The window was _open._

He walked towards it, meaning to get a view of the stars. As he drew up beside it, he felt his eyebrows rise in surprise. Marco was sitting out on the roof, staring at the sky. Ace swallowed slightly, trying not to notice how the moonlight slanted on his face, how the stars reflected in his eyes. Marco didn't turn his face to look at him, merely tossed his head faintly, indicating he wanted Ace to come out too.

Ace clambered out the window, mindful of the somewhat slippery shingle. He sat beside Marco, slightly unsure as to what he was doing or what Marco wanted. Marco inhaled deeply, and Ace watched the corners of his mouth tilt up into a gentle smile.

_Thank you_, he signed carefully. Ace smiled too, not a beam or a grin, the night was too delicate for something like that.

_You're welcome_, he replied, careful to make the sign concise and clear, the way Marco spoke carefully to him, not patronizing, but wanting him to understand. Marco was looking at him now, had turned his face to look straight at Ace. Ace, almost jarringly, found his expression unreadable.

"There's something you didn't teach me that I'd like to know how to say," Marco said, Ace tracking his lips. Ace quirked his head.

_What?_ he signed. Marco was smiling faintly again, slightly mirthful but mostly tender, and raised a hand. Ace thought he was going to sign something, but the hand rose further, coming instead to brush through a few strands of Ace's hair. Ace felt his breath freeze in his chest and stared at him, wide-eyed.

"How do I say 'I love you'?" Ace felt his heart crash against his ribs, the whole world stuttering into hyper-clarity. After a moment, he felt a smile of his own pulling his mouth. He didn't lift his hands to respond.

He leaned forward and kissed Marco instead.

It was simple, fragile, not asking for anything else. Marco responded equally, lifting a hand to card once through Ace's hair. When they pulled away, Ace wasted no time, nuzzling his head gently into the junction between Marco's neck and shoulder, content to watch the stars at least for a few minutes more. Marco in turn rested the side of his face against the top of Ace's head, one hand resting on the shingles behind Ace's back, supporting them. Ace watched the stars, content, warm, _at home_, willing to let this moment last the rest of eternity. The smile wouldn't fade from his face for the rest of his life, he was sure. Pure fondness made his chest feel tight and he chuckled breathily, silently.

_Marco, you idiot. You don't need any language to say that._

* * *

UGGGHHHH IT'S LATE BECAUSE I GOT OBSESSED UGGGGHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH (this was posted at ~1:30 AM mountain time, so i'm a little late but in my timezone it's not THAT bad)

To be honest there's a lot more scenes that I really wish I could write into this (dear lord I could make a whole series of _just this_) but sadly this is already late and I need my sleep. :( Maybe someday I'll return to this idea and expand upon it. I have a lot of emotions about this AU to be honest. Hopefully you guys liked it too! _**PLEASE**_ drop a review and tell me what you think! I live off feedback, and I'm curious to see if you guys like the idea of this au as much as I do. If not that's totally fine, but I'm just curious.

Well, again, apologies, but the rest of my entries for MarcoAce week will probably be SUPER late. I get back…July 7th, I think. So look for the rest a few days after that! I'll need a few days just to get back into this timezone again and to get over jet lag, but I promise I'll have the rest out as soon as possible! So I'll see you when I see you!


	4. Angst

Hello all! Sorry again for my lateness, I was on a service trip building a home for single mothers in the Dominican Republic, and when I got home I got a mild sinus infection, so I wasn't feeling great. As such, the continuation was even more delayed than I originally expected. :c We're back, though! And I hope the rest of these tickle your fancy!

**IMPORTANT PSA: **Hey guess what? Some of you probs aren't going to like this chapter. As in, like, most of you. It's already been made clear to me through browsing tumblr that my opinion on this matter is far from a widely held one. But guess what? It's _my_ opinion, and it's allowed to be different from yours and it's just as valid as yours because yours is just an opinion too, dammit. You will not alter what I write by disagreeing with me. If you don't like this one shot, stop reading it. Perhaps tune back in for the next ones if you like my writing style, as the subject matter will of course be different. If you do read the whole thing and still find yourself in disagreement with me, please provide me with _canonical facts_ to negate my argument. I will accept nothing less. And I am just as entitled to stand on my soapbox and be mad through fanfiction as all of you out there are entitled to stand on your soapboxes and be happy through fanfiction and fanart. Just because it's different than yours doesn't mean you should limit my self-expression. I promise I won't limit yours.

This chapter contains **LANGUAGE** and **SADNESS**

* * *

Marco didn't move. Hadn't moved for weeks. He sat, cross-legged, hands folded listlessly in his lap. He wasn't entirely sure he was even breathing. Not that it particularly mattered to him, either way. Nothing seemed to particularly matter much anymore.

The graves behind him mattered, though.

Here, on this remote island of the New World. One that nobody traveled to, one so small log poses barely picked up on it. The only things here were rocks, trees, grass, and dead people.

Marco didn't count himself to be truly alive anymore.

He could feel the warmth of the sun on his back, could taste the tang of salt in the wind. Seagulls cried. Dimly, distantly, the waves crashed against the coast, all cliff except for a tiny sheltered bay where sheer rock faded to gritty sand. Marco knew the landscape as inherently as if he'd lived here his entire life. He knew the placement of every tree, knew the contours of each individual inch of the land. Every time a leaf fell or a new flower bloomed he was acutely aware of it.

He'd become a part of the landscape himself, in a way. He was just as constant as the stones. Just as unmoving as the trees. Just as hollow as the caves that pocked the cliff faces.

He would stay here until he died.

It wasn't even a choice he'd really made. It was a compulsion. There was simply no other option for him. Staying here, defending the last earthly reminder of the man he'd loved and the father he'd never done anything to deserve. He was tied here, to them. The whole world could go to hell around him, but as long as this island, these graves, were preserved Marco knew he'd be incapable of caring.

It was the kind of detachment that came from losing everything.

From losing everything again and again and again.

And this had been the last time. He just couldn't do it anymore. This was the blow that he'd never recover from. He had nothing left to give, nothing left to commit. He'd watched his family die. Again. But it was so much more this time.

Because Ace had gone with them.

When he'd first understood the exact nature of his lifespan, Marco hadn't assigned any particular significance to it. But now it brought him torment. Greater torment than he knew to be possible.

He'd watched the rise of empires. The birth of nations. The evolution of music and art. Had been able to pull back and see the grand progression, the flawed, off-tempo march of human progress. He'd seen the majesty and wonder. He'd been privy to the whole story. It had been astounding, incredible, breathtaking. To bear witness to the development of humanity as a sentient creature from mere savages to poets had been like witnessing the greatest of all masterpieces being created. Immortality should have been a gift.

But all he wanted was to die.

And he couldn't.

The bitterness of it clawed at him. He would, in all likelihood, exist here even past humanity's fall. Once he'd feared death, and then it had been possible. Now it was all he desired, and merciless irony deemed it impossible with current technology.

So he would wait.

Wait for whatever eon and whatever form mercy came in.

Wait, whether it be for weapon or blow or for the sun collapsing, burning away the atmosphere and letting in the cold, the dark. It didn't particularly matter which came first to him. Time had lost meaning, as he had no way of truly measuring it. The deep set ache at his core was unchanging. Days passed only as fleeting moments of warmth versus the coolness of night. Time was meaningless. Always had been. A construct, only existent if acknowledged or implemented.

Something bumped against Marco's consciousness, dragging up the shore, beaching itself like a whale. He felt the grass blades bend underfoot. Felt the jostle as a pebble was kicked accidentally out of the space it had occupied for the last fifty years.

Someone was coming. Climbing the island, approaching the center of the universe.

Marco studied the person's mind. They – he, Marco realized – was cool, intelligent, educated… He was currently remembering something, too consumed in whatever it was to notice Marco's subtle, long-distance study. He was passing through the copse of trees that shrouded the side of the island, still steadily progressing towards the gravesite. Once he emerged from the trees the graves would be before him, Marco the only thing between them. Marco felt the stranger nearing the edge of the trees.

"Go no further," Marco said, loud enough to be heard. He felt the stranger startle, tensing, his mind instantly snapping to higher alert. From where he was, the Marco knew the stranger could see neither the graves nor him. "Go back. There's nothing here for anyone, yoi." He could hear the hollow brokenness in his own voice, reflected perfectly by his whole existence.

"Who's there?" the stranger called. Marco felt him approaching again, felt the wariness of his mind. The memories were still near the surface, though, lying just below this temporary defensiveness.

Marco laughed, a horrible, bitter sound. "No one, yoi." It was true. Everything about him was gone. There was no one left here. "No one." The figure made it to the edge of the trees, his eyes landing on the Marco for the first time. Marco sensed his surprise, heard the tiny gasp.

"Marco the Phoenix?" he asked, shock clear in his tone. Marco didn't lift his head.

"…I suppose. Though I fail to see how it matters, yoi," he responded.

"What are you doing here? From what I've heard you're a great pirate, a great warrior. Why are you here?" Surprise was still clear in the stranger's voice and mind, as well as confusion.

"Waiting to die," Marco said simply. He said it calmly, monotone, detached. He could sense the stranger's confusion, as well as how much his answer had unnerved him. The silence stretched, the stranger studying Marco, Marco completely uncaring.

"…You're blind," the stranger said, startled. Marco smiled bitterly, still leaving his eyes closed.

"No. I just have nothing to look at. And I refuse to see any more suffering, yoi. I'm tired of watching everything I care about die." They fell to silence, Marco not caring to make conversation. Not even particularly caring about the stranger's presence, so long as he didn't attempt to approach the graves.

"What are you doing with your hand?" the stranger asked. Marco's fingers continued to flow regardless, the fingers of the left hand coiling and uncoiling rhythmically as it sat in his lap. Marco could sense the stranger was unnerved by his presence, his silence, and his state of mind. He could tell the stranger didn't want him here. But this place was Marco's grave too, and he could stir from it no more than those buried behind him.

Marco smiled faintly, a tiny spark of real feeling – deep, never-fading sorrow – ignite in his chest. "Mourning, yoi." He felt a tear slip down his face. "I'm playing the Adagio for Strings by Samuel Barber." More tears, unsummoned. "It's the only thing left I can do for them. Can't you hear it?" This last seemed to unsettle the stranger more than anything previous. But Marco had forgotten that there was some kind of difference between his mind and the world. _He_ could hear it. _He_ could feel each thrumming, familiar string beneath his fingers, his mental orchestra following his perfect rendition of the first violin part.

The stranger seemed unsure of what to say to him. Seemed unsure of how to address this broken, shattered creature in front of him. Marco could sense his incomprehension, his mild wariness, as if Marco was about to snap. Marco didn't blame him for not understanding. Nobody could understand. Nobody else knew what it was like to be dead and still forced into consciousness.

After a long stretch of silence where the stranger seemed either at a loss for words or too wary to speak, he moved. Marco sensed his intention before he had even entirely lifted one foot from the ground to take a step forward.

"Go no closer, yoi," he said. The stranger paused. "I don't know you. Ergo you aren't a member of my family. You don't belong here. You should leave, yoi."

"I'm here to pay my respects," the stranger said.

"Leave." Marco could sense the stranger's growing indignation.

"I have just as much right to be here as you-"

"Liar."

The stranger's frustration was quickening. "Oh?" he asked, annoyed, sarcastic.

"The only ones who have a right to be here are the ones who lost something in the Marineford War. You weren't there. I would recognize you if you had been. This is not a place for you. Leave. I _will_ defend this place, yoi."

"I did lose something in the Marineford War!"

"Really?"

"My brother died there!"

"You are not Straw Hat Luffy nor a member of my family. Your brother did not die there, yoi."

"You're wrong and you don't know what you're talking about. Get out of my way." The stranger moved again to walk around Marco, to approach the graves, and Marco moved, faster than blinking.

Before the stranger could even react his back was slammed against a tree hard enough to drive the air from his lungs. His feet weren't touching the ground.

Marco's right hand was locked around his throat, the left still playing invisible violin melodies.

His eyes were still closed.

"Listen here, _brat._ You will not disobey me. You will not disrespect me. And most of all, I won't let you disrespect _them_. Now who are you and why are you here?" He loosened his grip enough that the stranger collapsed to the ground, coughing and gasping. Marco didn't retreat, didn't move, just let him continue to sputter in an undignified pile at his feet for a moment.

Finally the stranger rose to their feet, their anger surging like a tide. "You son of a bitch-"

"Don't retaliate, yoi. I didn't kill you, but you know that I could. And more importantly, despite what you may think and what skill with haki you may have, you don't possess the means to kill me. Now who are you and why. Are. You. Here?" The stranger considered him spitefully for a moment, and Marco wondered if he'd idiotically try attacking anyway, but he finally replied.

"I don't know how close you were with _my_ brother, but I'm second in command of the Revolutionary army, my name is-" Marco's eyes snapped open, wanting to disbelieve but knowing even without seeing. He'd finally caught a glimpse of one of the memories spinning in the stranger's head. One that had been described in detail to him, from a different perspective.

"Sabo," Marco finished, stunned.

The other, scarred blonde considered him for a moment, drawing himself up to his full height, tugging on the lapels of his jacket to straighten it. "Yes, that's right. Ace must have mentioned me." Marco stared at him, silent.

"You bastard," Marco whispered, eyes wide.

"What was that?" Marco, abandoning his violin, seized the front of Sabo's jacket in both hands, lifting him again like he weighed nothing, slamming him back against the tree.

"_You BASTARD!"_ he snarled, grip so tight he felt the bones in his hands strain. Sabo gasped at the pain and shock of it, his head smacking back against the tree in a way that was undoubtedly harmful. Marco sneered at him, caught between a grin and a grimace. "Yeah, you better fucking believe Ace told me about you. He told me all about you. He told me how much he respected you, looked up to you. He told me how much of a role model you were. How loyal and caring and _selfless_ you were. He told me how much he _agonized_ over your death." Marco's eyes, burning with rage, searched Sabo's face. "Well, looks like he was fucking wrong about you. What kind of loyal, caring, selfless brother, what kind of role model, _would let his own family suffer like that, believing he was dead, huh?!"_ Marco snarled. Sabo was lashing out, writhing and kicking in an attempt to free himself, and a good deal of the blows landed. But he forgot that Marco was long past caring about things like pain. "How long was it? Ten and a half years? Eleven? Eleven _years._ For _anything_. A visit. A call. A fucking _letter_ if you were too much of a coward to face him! Four thousand and fifteen days to say _anything!_ _How could you let him die believing he'd failed you?!"_ He pulled Sabo from the tree, throwing him deeper into the woods, away from the graves.

"Leave this place. _Now,_ yoi. If I _ever_ find you anywhere _close_ to this place again, I will kill you," Marco finished, voice icy. Sabo rose to his feet, glaring back at Marco with equal vehemence.

"I'm not leaving. Not yet."

"Yes you are. As I said, you don't belong here, yoi. This place is only for those who lost something in the Marineford War."

"I _did_ lose something!" Sabo snarled. "Ace was _my brother too!"_

"No. No he wasn't. The Sabo that Ace knew died a long time ago. The boy Ace told me about wouldn't have abandoned his family. All of Ace's real family did rise up to defend him when he needed it most. You were not among them. You were not there when Ace needed you most. You, Revolutionary, did not lose anything in the Marineford War because you didn't risk anything. You gave nothing of yourself to Ace, not even the knowledge of your existence. He had no part of you, and you no part of him. You lost nothing of yourself when he died. You lost nothing. _Nothing._" Marco turned, meaning to walk back to his original seat before the graves. "Now leave. Leave before I decide your betrayal is worthy of punishment, yoi." Marco paused, turning back, expression going interrogatory.

"You know, I've been thinking about it for a while, and no matter how I spin it around, it just doesn't make sense. The whole world knew the Marineford War was coming. The whole world knew what was at stake. Knew that the full force of the Whitebeard Pirates and our allies versus the Marines was a struggle that no one could concretely pick the outcome of. The simplest _child_ knew that it was about 50 50 as to who would win. It was known that both sides were all in, no forces left in reserve somewhere else. So you, sneaky Revolutionary bastards must have known it too. So what I've been left wondering is why, with such a _golden_ opportunity, the Revolutionary Army didn't spring in at this one chance in a million to destroy the entire Navy. With them gone, taking out the World Government – as you claim is your cause – would have been _child's play._ You knew that no chance like this would ever come again, no crew as powerful as Whitebeard's in existence or probably ever going to exist again. So _why didn't you?_ Why _didn't_ you take this one incredible opportunity to destroy your greatest roadblock? I just don't understand it. It refuses to sit comfortably in my head. But of course, this is all dependent on one big assumption.

"That your motives are really what you say, yoi.

"It all makes sense, if you had some kind of alternate motive, one other than destroying the government." Marco was staring at Sabo analytically, coldly. "I don't know what you're up to, and I don't particularly care on the larger scale. But there is one thing I will promise you because I know Ace would ask it of me, yoi.

"If you ever, _ever_ do _anything_ to harm or antagonize Straw Hat Luffy, I will hunt you down and tear you apart."

Marco focused his mind, shaping it in a way he hadn't for a very, very long time before slamming it into Sabo's consciousness. Sabo gasped, falling to his knees, clutching his head. Marco withdrew as quickly as he'd intruded, leaving behind a kind of imprint, a tiny fraction of his consciousness.

"That'll let me keep an eye on you, yoi. Mark my words, if you _ever_ try to hurt Ace's little brother, I will _destroy you._ You can burn the rest of the world for all I care, but him you will not touch. Now leave. This conversation is over. Go back to whatever underhanded scheme you Revolutionaries are up to. Do _not_ return here, ever. Do not antagonize Straw Hat Luffy." Marco tapped his temple. "I'll be watching, yoi. Always."

Sabo seemed like he wanted to protest and Marco could feel his rage, but he wouldn't back down. And he knew Sabo knew just how easily Marco could kill him, if it came to it. Finally, clenching his fists and scowling, Sabo spun on his heel. Marco carefully monitored his motion as he left the island, felt the boat scrape off the shore and out onto the sea. He continued to monitor until it was far out, nearly 20 miles away, then turned back, reentering the clearing where the graves stood.

He approached Ace's slowly, forlornly. He sighed, sitting before it, facing it. He reached around it, searching for something one of his brothers had left on their last sporadic visit.

A sake bottle and three cups.

"I'm sorry, yoi," Marco said faintly, opening the sake. "It shouldn't have turned out like this." He carefully arranged the three cups in an equilateral triangle. "…You can never rely on people. You deserved a better brother than him. Luffy deserves a better brother than him too." Marco looked up at the grave before him. "I don't know what he's going to do next. But I promise I won't let him hurt your little brother. I promise. And I'll keep this one, I swear." His eyes fell to the ground, landing back on the sake cups. He poured the drink carefully, only filling one of the three cups. He smiled bitterly.

"Cheers, Straw Hat Luffy. You and I both have no one left to tap glasses with."

* * *

Well this one shot pretty much sucked. Sorry. Well, I got to rant, which always makes me feel better. And I liked the first part, where it was just Marco alone. Anyways, yeah. Sorry this one sucked. Sorry it's late. Next ones will hopefully be better and definitely more pairing-y. Bear with me, I'm still a bit sick.

Anyways, I guess I'll go to sleep now. Crappy chapter was crappy. Next chapter with 100% less crap! Seriously though. Sorry this one wasn't great. Next will be better.

Also, if you disagree with me on Sabo: that's fine, you're entitled to your opinion. Whatever. Seriously. Just because I'm pissed he's back doesn't mean you have to be. But there are legitimate plot-holes about his reappearance that need to be addressed before I'll accept him as a protagonist, and until those are all fully addressed I will continue to view him as a possible (likely) future antagonist. Don't hate me because I disagree with you. Don't hate all of my writing because I disagree with you. If you liked the previous one-shots you will probably like the next ones. Just because you don't like this particular one doesn't mean you won't like the rest. So please, do check back in for the continuations, even if this particular one didn't tickle your fancy. Thank you.

OH ALSO! look up the song Marco mentioned he was 'playing'. It's really, REALLY pretty! It's my favorite string orchestra piece!


	5. Dancing

Back again! Slight delay, but less so this time! This one-shot featuring 100% more pairing and fluff than the last one! Hope you enjoy, for all that it's not very plot-based. Well…kinda. You'll see. Maybe enjoy. This idea literally _just_ popped into my head as I sat down to write, so hopefully it'll work out?

This chapter contains **LANUGAGE** and **FLUFF** _This is a songfic, if you want to look up the song it's This Dance by Five for Fighting. It's essentially adorable. I'll admit: I was tempted to write smut, but it didn't fit the tone of the song. At all. So I didn't. Sorry. C:_

* * *

_This is not our favorite song  
__But the night's moving right along.  
__May I have your hand, may I have this dance?_

Sometimes Ace wondered how his friends came up with the stupid shit they got him into. He also wondered where in hell they got the idea that when they had a stupid idea, he was the go-to guy to drag along.

Thatch had decided ballroom dancing would be a great way to pick up chicks.

So, _naturally_, he dragged Ace with him when he went to a stupid ballroom dance class.

Haruta at least had been interested, so she'd tagged along as well. Unfortunately, this meant there was an odd number of people in their little excursion. This led to a rather glaringly obvious problem upon arriving at the class.

Ace didn't have a dance partner.

He was tempted to bail, just leave those actually interested in the class to it, but Thatch wouldn't let him wriggle out of it. He assured Ace that someone else would arrive without a partner by the time the class started.

He lied.

The room was only semi-filled by the time the instructor entered, and Ace, who had been watching carefully, had seen no one enter alone or in an uneven group. At first he didn't realize the instructor had entered, only as the room began falling silent did he look around, searching for the source of the sudden quiet.

"Good evening, ladies and gentlemen. My name is Marco, and I'm going to be your instructor." Ace searched for the source of the voice. Finally, his eyes settled on a man at the front of the classroom. Ace blinked, feeling his heart stutter.

Holy. Fucking. _Shit._

He was blonde, only an inch or two taller than Ace himself. He had a firm jaw, scraped with stubble, and the most vivid eyes Ace had ever seen. He was dressed neatly, black slacks paired with a white button-down – pretty much standard uniform for ballroom dance teachers if Ace had to guess – but had the sleeves rolled up nearly to his elbows, exposing tanned skin and firm muscle.

Ace was pretty much doing his best not to drool.

"I'm aware that some of you will probably only be attending one or two lessons, so I'd like to cover as much ground in that time as possible. As such, we'll get right down to business. We'll be starting with the simple foxtrot pattern." He smiled humorously and Ace almost swooned. "If you manage to convince me you've mastered the basics before the end of class, I'll teach you some of the variations that I'm sure you've seen in movies and on television and are what you're _really_ interested in. Now, the foxtrot is a very simple pattern. You simply…"

_I sense that you are amused,  
__but you just bought those brand new shoes.  
__It would be such a shame not to give us the chance!_

"No partner, yoi?" Ace's attention instantly snapped to the source of the voice, a voice he'd by now tried to ingrain into the very core of his memory. He tried to fight back the automatic, _unnecessary_ blush.

"W-Well I came with two other friends, but they're dancing with each other, so…" Ace laughed nervously, mentally stabbing himself for the stutter. Marco smiled at him, and despite the fact that Ace knew Marco was a teacher – smiling at everyone was a part of his job – Ace somehow got the feeling that Marco actually meant it.

"It's not a problem, yoi. I'll dance with you. Assuming…that's all right with you, of course. I already introduced myself to the class as a whole, but I'm Marco. What's your name?" Ace thought he was going to combust.

"Yeah! Yeah, that'd be fine!" To his credit, he _tried_ not to sound too excited. It was only as an afterthought that Ace remembered Marco's question. "I'm- My name is Ace."

"Ace." Marco didn't stretch the name, but savored it, tasted it like sugar. Ace felt a little thrill shoot down his spine.

And then Marco reached for his hand, clasping it gently in his own, before putting his hand on Ace's waist and he just about suffered cardiac arrest.

"I'll take the lead, if you don't mind, yoi. It can be helpful to participate in a more direct demonstration if you want to pick it up quickly."

"Yeah. I think I saw a conveniently waist-high table on the way in if you want to take the lead in that demonstration too," Ace murmured breathlessly.

"What?" Marco cocked his head slightly, clearly not having heard him.

"What?" Ace was smiling at him dumbly, trying to wipe the mental image of Marco bending him over, well…everything in sight. Truly. Ace wasn't picky.

"…Well, anyways, put your hand on my shoulder, yoi."

It was only after Ace stumbled over Marco's foot a third time that he noticed the minute shaking in Marco's shoulders, the way his lips trembled faintly.

"You're laughing at me!" Ace gasped, indignation coloring his face and tone. Marco straightened, any hint of a smile dropping from his face, but his eyes still shining.

"Nonsense, yoi. It would be highly unprofessional for me to laugh at a student," he said in mock seriousness. Ace pouted, smacking his shoulder lightly.

He noticed the way Marco's eyes flicked to his lips, but didn't comment. Just let his mental marching band parade around the globe a few thousand times. There were fireworks, too. Confetti. Jubilation and exaltation that lasted seven days and seven nights. You know, the totally acceptable reaction to having your incredibly hot dance instructor look at your mouth.

_And oh, my love. There's only so many dances  
__we can take across the night._

The class drew to a close, and Ace had never wished so desperately for time to stretch. But, alas, propriety deemed that he had to let go of Marco so that he could wrap up the class, briefly surmising the day's lesson, vaguely referencing what would be covered next week, and stating that he'd hope to see everyone again at the next lesson. And then that was it, people filtering out the door, collecting coats, heading out into the city.

Marco stood by the door, taking questions, comments, and wishing people a good night.

_So while it's just me and you  
__I though I might say to you,  
__You put the beautiful in life._

Ace lingered, waiting until everyone else had slipped away, even insisting Thatch and Haruta go on ahead, that he'd catch up. Finally, when things had quieted down, he approached Marco, a jitter of nervousness twisting in his stomach. Marco's eyes landed on him and softened, warmed.

"I…I wanted to thank you for dancing with me," Ace said, feeling familiar heat in his cheeks. Marco smiled at him, mirth dancing in his eyes again.

"It was my pleasure, yoi. You were a beautiful dancer." Ace snorted.

"I'm calling bullshit. I think I practically broke your toes by the end." Marco's eyelids drooped a little further, smile shifting slightly in tone.

"I never said it was the dancing that was beautiful, did I?"

Ace felt his whole face increase in temperature by a good 20 degrees. The last people filtered out of the room, Marco glancing sidelong to watch them leave before leaning forward, speaking more quietly.

"You know, if you're still interested, I _could_ give you that demonstration of all the uses of a waist-high table besides brochure-holding." Ace's brain flat-lined. He was pretty sure he was going to go catatonic. Any second now he'd actually collapse to the floor. Whether it be from the sheer degree of _fuck yes_ or embarrassment had yet to be determined. Marco seemed to take pity on his tumultuous emotional state and spoke again, chuckling slightly. "But, as appealing as that is, your friends are waiting for you and my boss hates paying overtime. So we'll settle for this instead, huh?" He extended his hand, slip of paper held loosely between two fingers. Ace accepted it, unfolding it and glancing down. A phone number.

"Call me sometime. I have weird hours, but I'm free Mondays and Wednesdays." Now it was Marco's turn to look unsure. "I'd…really like to see you again, yoi. Would you like that?" Ace had recovered the use of his mouth and utilized it, eager to soothe away the uncertainty from Marco's face and replace it with that narcotic smile.

"Of course!" he said, sure the grin on his face was threatening to tear his face in half. "I'd love that!" Ace felt his phone buzz in his pocket and knew Thatch and Haruta would be getting impatient, borderline concerned. "I…I have to go, but I'll see you next week for sure, if not sooner?" He tipped the last part up like a question, nervousness he wasn't really accustomed to thinning his words. Marco smiled back at him.

"Definitely." Ace smiled back, turning to leave. "Oh, and Ace?" Ace looked over his shoulder.

"Yeah?" he replied. Marco smirked.

"Don't bring a dancing partner next week."

_I know some times that you feel alone  
__When I'm here and I'm never home.  
__You said it before it's the price that you pay._

The Skype video quality had always looked like it was being filmed with a potato, but _God_ Ace had never wished harder that it was better. He wanted to see every minute detail of Marco's face, to trace the edges he'd become so familiar with over the last year.

"God, I miss you," Ace murmured, barely loud enough for the shitty laptop microphone to pick up. Marco smiled wanly, sympathetically.

"I miss you too. But it's only for another month, right? And this is a huge opportunity for you! You could be hired by _National Geographic_ if they like the way these photos turn out! It's a big deal! I'm happy for you, yoi." Ace pouted, furrowing his eyebrows. Marco chuckled, his smile going a little sadder. "Don't make that face when I can't kiss you, Ace," he said softly.

They both wanted so desperately to reach through the screens and the space.

"…What do you miss the most about home?" Marco finally asked, changing the subject. Ace leaned back slightly, considering it.

"…Air conditioning. Hamburgers. Pre-packaged cookie dough." Ace smiled at the screen. "You." Marco arched an eyebrow.

"So I surpassed French fries now, yoi?" Marco asked, amused. Ace grinned.

"Yep!" he said, making the 'p' pop. "And that means you're pretty fucking special, mister! That's commitment right there!"

_On matters of clarity,  
__it's no secret you carry me.  
__But should the sky start to fall I will keep you safe._

Marco bolted down the corridor, skidding around the corner with the hideous squeak of shoes on polished tile. He'd been running for a while and was panting heavily, but like hell was he slowing down. With this much urgency, he swears he could have _flown._

Finally, recognizing the room number he was given, he slams through the door, uncaring of the dirty look he received from a nurse. Marco's eyes landed on the bed, his face morphing into shock, heart thudding painfully in his chest.

"Oh _baby,"_ he whispered, striding up to the side of the bed and carding his fingers through Ace's hair, kissing his forehead, his cheeks, his nose, every inch of his face. His heart felt like it was going to break itself to pieces with all the concern and worry. "Oh _baby."_ This time the words were murmured into Ace's hair, a single tear from all the pent up worry and exhaustion and stress breaking free and dampening Ace's bangs.

"I'm fine, Marco! I'm all right! It's okay." Ace's speech was a little groggy, a little indistinct from all the medication. When Marco drew back, Ace smiled blearily, weakly up at him, strained with the pain Marco knew he still must be feeling. "Really. It could have happened to anyone. I was just unlucky. But now I'm lucky because I get to be here with you."

"Getting _shot by terrorists_ in the Middle East isn't something that happens to anyone, Ace! I thought you said you'd be safe?!" Marco knew all his fear and anxiety was coming out too harshly, unfairly. Ace shrugged weakly.

"The area was supposed to be safe. It was a random attack, I was just in the wrong place at the wrong time. I'd taken serious precautions when I planned the route I'd be taking, I'd been careful with the research but," he shrugged again, "this kind of activity is unpredictable. It's not like I planned on this, Marco." Marco sighed, clenching his eyes and bowing his head.

"I know. I know, I know. And I know I'm not being fair and I know I'm not being rational but dammit Ace I was _terrified._ The embassy only told me that you'd been shot twice and were being brought back here. _I thought you might be coming home in a box._ Can you understand that the last few days have been hard for me? I know you're in pain and I know it's not fair of me to expect you to be strong right now and I'm sorry but I was so scared, I was so, so scared." Marco could feel the tears on his own face and tried to hide them. He was ashamed of this weakness. Ace needed him right now, Ace was the one in the hospital bed, Ace was the one with _bullet holes_, _dammit_, and that, _that_ was something to cry about, not his irrational, expired fear.

Ace's hand brushed weakly against his face, clumsily swiping away his tears. Marco shuddered, grabbing Ace's hand gently, keeping it pressed to his face, kissing the palm tenderly. "I'm sorry. I'm sorry, Ace. I love you. I was just really worried about you." He looked up at Ace and smiled. "Welcome home, love."

_And oh, my love. There's only so many dances  
__we can take across the night._

It was a few weeks before Ace was discharged, and he was still required to go back for weekly physical therapy. The shot to his side wasn't causing him as much day-to-day trouble as the leg injury was. Ace hated being tied down. He was allowed to walk with a cane now, and the doctors said if the therapy continued at the rate he was progressing, he'd be allowed to walk without it in another four weeks.

He scratched grouchily at his side. Healing was an _itchy_ process.

He heard the door open and close and, glancing at the clock, surmised Marco was home from work for the day. He heard rustling in the entry, guessing that Marco had picked up groceries and was taking off his shoes. Finally, he heard Marco pad into the kitchen and begin putting whatever groceries he'd bought away.

"How was your day?" Ace called, not bothering to get up. He knew Marco would just make him sit down again anyway.

"Pretty good. Work was just the usual. I got a call from your physical therapist during my lunch break, yoi. I left a message for him a few days ago asking if there were any exercises we should or could be doing at home to get you on your feet faster. He called me back with his response," Marco said.

"And?" Ace asked, trying to hide his excitement. Yeah, like just about everyone else, he fucking _hated_ PT, but he wanted to get moving again _now_. Marco seemed to finish whatever he was doing in the kitchen, moving into the living room where Ace was currently sprawled on the couch. He took one look at Ace and burst out laughing. "What?" Ace asked, pouting.

"I…" Marco was still laughing almost too hard to speak. "I know…you said you missed cookie dough…but _Jesus_, Ace!" He collapsed back into hysterics. Ace frowned, spooning out another tablespoon of sugary goodness from the Pillsbury tube.

"Well fuck you too, Marco. Last time I checked, getting shot and being an invalid entitles me to be a fatass," Ace responded, licking the cookie dough off the spoon and shifting his attention back to his laptop where he'd been busy cropping and editing the photos from his trip.

Marco's laughter finally subsided and he approached, bending down to kiss his boyfriend. Ace, still pouting, didn't kiss him back at first when Marco brushed his lips against his, but when he pulled back a little, hovering there, waiting, Ace did roll his eyes and lean forward, kissing him again. When he leaned back, Marco smiled down at him warmly.

"You're allowed to do whatever you want, yoi. Just don't get E coli please, okay? Why don't you let me actually bake some of that, hmm?" he asked, tilting his head. Ace sighed dramatically.

"I _suppose_, if you _must,"_ he said, exaggeratory. Marco chuckled, taking the tube (less than half empty, Marco realized. Thatch must have snuck him another tube when Marco wasn't watching. Bastard) and setting it on the coffee table. He looked back down at Ace.

"Anyways, when I talked to your doctor, he said that mild physical activity is good – that you should be trying to put _some_ weight on the leg again – but that you shouldn't do anything entirely unsupported. I know you want to get away from the cane, so I made a suggestion and the doctor said it was fine, yoi." Ace looked curious again.

"And what was that?" Marco smiled, walking around the couch to the CD player and turning it on.

"I swear I'll teach you how to foxtrot if it's the last thing I do."

_So while it's just me and you  
__I though I might say to you,  
__You put the beautiful in life._

The dancing was hard for Ace. They took it slow, moving at a lethargic pace. Marco wrapped his arm more firmly around Ace than you were technically supposed to, but he used said arm to support some of Ace's bodyweight so that the full of it never rested on his injured leg. Ace, in turn, leaned against him, even resting his forehead against Marco's shoulder.

They danced, slow, content, silent, but for the music. One song passed. Two. Marco's face rested against Ace's hair. Their movement subsided, step by step, until they were merely standing in place, swaying in time with the music.

The last song on the CD started playing, and Ace's eyes opened.

"This was the song we danced to in your class, wasn't it?" he asked, voice quiet.

"Yeah. Yeah it is," Marco murmured into Ace's hair. They stopped swaying, merely standing there, Ace resting his weight on his uninjured leg, still wrapped in Marco's arms. "I…put it on this CD intentionally," Marco said. Ace made a quiet, questioning noise. Marco laughed quietly, at himself. Nervousness began to pool in the pit of his gut. "I…I had it all planned out. For when you got back. We were going to go out to dinner, then come back here since I knew you'd be tired. The music would already be playing when you came through the door. I'd ask you to dance with me. Then, at the end of the song I'd-" Marco cut off, swallowing hard. The nervousness was escalating, twisting uncomfortably in his chest and guts.

"But…well, that didn't exactly happen, yoi. But even this, all the fear and worry and uncertainty and pain we went through. It just made me more sure. It wasn't…according to plan, but life never is." Ace was looking up at him, mild confusion in his expression, but he didn't interrupt. Marco sighed, trying to settle his frantic heartbeat. "I guess what I'm trying to say is…even though it didn't turn out how I thought it would, and even though the last month has been really hard…it only made me realize exactly how much I love you." Marco looked down at Ace seriously. "I'd die for you. In an _instant._ I'd give everything I have for you to be happy. I'd kill someone for even hurting your feelings. There is nothing I wouldn't do for you. You've become everything to me, the single most important thing in my life. And I never, never want to spend another moment without you." Marco carefully released Ace, moving slowly so he'd be able to shift his weight to his uninjured foot.

Marco bent on one knee, reaching into his pocket.

"Will you marry me?"

_This is not our favorite song  
__But I wish it'd go on and on  
__It's moments like these  
__Singers do all they can to stop time._

The wedding was as chaotic and boisterous as it was always going to be, with Thatch as Ace's best man. Ace _didn't_ cry during vows, no matter _what_ Izou says…and the pictures are _obviously_ falsified too! Marco definitely _didn't_ whisper _exactly_ what use he was planning to put Ace's bowtie to later that night while Ace was taking his first sip of champagne, and if definitely _didn't_ end up in a fine mist all over Haruta's face. Thatch definitely _didn't_ forget the cake and have to break into the bakery to get it. All of the gifts were _definitely_ G-rated, especially Izou's. Thatch definitely _didn't_ spike Jozu's drink, and it definitely _didn't_ end in a tearful, karaoke rendition of My Heart Will Go On that Jozu definitely _didn't_ have all of the lyrics completely memorized to.

Seriously. All those pictures are photoshopped.

It was the perfect night. Perfect in every tiny calamity, every unplanned event. Just like their lives had been up to this point, and hopefully would be in the future. It was golden and glowing and precious and Marco knew they'd both treasure it forever.

The time finally came for their first dance.

_So let me just say to you  
__before the DJ changes the tune,  
__You put the beautiful in life._

Ace finally nailed the foxtrot. He must have practiced it when Marco wasn't watching, because they moved and spun in perfect, flawless synchronization. Cheesy and cliché as it may sound, the world around them really did seem to fall away. All Marco could see was the beautiful man before him, the hurricane that had swept in and rearranged everything in the craziest, best way possible. Marco couldn't stop smiling, his eyes locked unfalteringly on Ace, who was grinning back just as compellingly.

"So this is it, huh?" Ace whispered. "The rest of our lives?" Marco smiled, perfectly content, and nodded, bending down slightly to rest his forehead against Ace's. "You're not going to get bored of me, are you?" Ace asked, voice teasing.

"Never," Marco said. The smile wouldn't leave his face forever, he was sure.

"_You put the beautiful in life."_

* * *

HEY IT'S 4 IN THE MORNING AND I HAVE A PIANO LESSON IN 4 AND A HALF HOURS! So I hope you can appreciate that I need sleep and that this isn't beta'd or reread. There may be typos. If they're there, I apologize. But I hope you enjoyed it! To be honest, I chickened out of writing out Marco and Ace's _actual_ vows. I was worried I wouldn't come up with something good enough. X3 So they're just referenced. And Ace definitely _didn't_ cry, what are you guys _talking_ about. (this is sarcasm in case you can't tell.)

Well anyway, I'm out. To be honest, I don't have a clue what I'm going to do for tomorrow's theme. Like, 0%. But I'm sure I'll find something. Till then, dear readers! Adieu!


	6. Fighting

(HEY ALL GUESS WHAT I AM TRASH I AM ACTUAL TRASH WHOOPIEEEEEEEE! Okay so here's my excuses: life pooped on me (a very close family friend had a heart attack – he's okay, but everything was pretty tense for a while), I started school again, and I HAVE OVER 5000 WORDS OF A DIFFERENT IDEA FOR THIS PROMPT IN A DIFFERENT DOCUMENT (this last one is why I am trash). Basically, the other idea wasn't really panning out and didn't fit the prompt. I'll probably finish it someday, but for now it will just sit unused in a little cupboard somewhere. The gist of it: 1800s, Ace is psychic, Whitebeard is minor nobility and was friends with Ace's parents and ended up adopting him when they died when he was small, Marco's Whitebeard's son, nobody believes Ace about the ghosts, he gets put in an asylum, he escapes with the help of his supernatural 'buddy', he gets possessed…yeah. It's better than how I just explained it, but yeah. I'll finish it later. But for now, this. Because this should be easier to write, quicker to finish, and is already SO LATE I CAN'T JUSTIFY WAITING ANYMORE.

**Warning: This chapter contains ANGRY (and thus rough) SEX (couldn't resist. The smut bug finally caught me), LANGUAGE, and VIOLENCE**. _This AU is largely canon-verse, but with select differences that will be made apparent in the story itself. (It spans chapters 434, 440, and 441, plus extra, non-canon stuff. I altered the dialogue slightly because I don't always like the way they translate it online and some of the punctuation choices would look weird in a non-manga form and it didn't fit the way this story goes.)_

**ALSOOOOOOO:** I did research on real raptors for this. The Harpy Eagle, the largest eagle in the Americas, has a grip strength strong enough to _break the bones of larger mammals_. The Bald Eagle has a grip strength upwards of 400 psi, the Golden Eagle almost twice that. So it is actually accurate that a raptor's grip strength far, far exceeds that of human's (average adult human has grip strength of ~20 psi).

Enjoy.)

* * *

"Please, you have to stop Ace from going after Teach." Shanks' face is serious, his voice even more so. They fall silent for a moment, Whitebeard considering him, Shanks unmoving, not breaking their gaze even to blink.

Finally, Whitebeard takes another swig from the sake Shanks had brought as a gift, breaking the tension.

"It's none of your damn business," Whitebeard grumbles, "but I will tell you that it's already being taken care of."

"Wha-? He _can't_ do it on his own, Whitebeard! Ace is strong, but he's also naiv-"

"Don't pretend to know my sons better than I do. I only said it's being taken care of. I didn't say who's taking care of it, now did I." They fall silent again, mild animosity in the air as Shanks stares at Whitebeard searchingly.

"You sent someone else," he states. It isn't a question.

"More like couldn't stop the damn fool from running off," Whitebeard grumbles. "But yes. Ace has backup. And even if Teach does somehow manage to best Ace, he won't beat both of them."

"Who?" Shanks asks. Whitebeard chuckles.

"You haven't noticed he's gone? Usually you would've asked him to join your crew by now."

* * *

"Ooh, Ace…or should I say _Commander_ Ace?" Teach's voice is mocking, condescending.

"Don't…" Ace's voice is shaking faintly with rage. "Don't call me "commander" anymore. That's a word of respect, and neither of us has that for the other," he spits.

"Oh, so _you're_ fire fist Ace," Laffite notes. Ace's gaze shifts languidly to him.

"Yes, I am. Hello there," he says, faux pleasantness in his tone. His attention moves back to Teach. "…So this is your crew, huh? Sure have become a _fine_ captain, haven't you, Teach? Or would you prefer your stupid rip-off epithet, Blackbeard?" Teach laughs.

"Come on, Ace, don't be like that! We haven't seen each other in forever! What's up? How did you know I was here?" Teach's voice is friendly, unconcerned.

"Don't play dumb. You've lived twice as long as I have, there's no way you don't understand the situation." Ace is smiling, but his voice is anything but cordial.

"…All right. I understand. Let me ask you one thing, though." Teach is still grinning, self-assured, confident. "Why don't you join my crew?! Conquer the world with me! I've already planned how to do it! Whitebeard's era is over! I will be the pirate king!" Teach throws his arms out to the side, gloating. "To start with, I'll finish off Strawhat Luffy in Water 7 and deliver him to the World Government-"

"Luffy? What?!" Ace startles, taken off guard. His face tightens further.

"Huh? You know him?" Teach asks. Ace's hands clench.

"…Sorry, Teach. The little escapade is over. You're never leaving this island." Ace's voice is soft, anger twisting the edges of it. "I'll never let you anywhere _close_ to _my little brother."_ His voice is gaining volume. "And of _course_ _I'd never join the crew of a filthy traitor like you!"_

The last words hadn't even passed his mouth by the time the gun was fired, four shots in almost instantaneous succession. They pass through Ace harmlessly, and Ace finishes his sentence, uncaring. He shifts his attention to the sniper, who smirks up at him. He doesn't bother to stand.

He giggles.

"Looks like we've got someone with bad _manners_ here. Don't you know it's _rude to interrupt?"_ He shoots fire after the sniper, the tiny spurts of it moving as fast and deadly as bullets. The man dodges, racing desperately to the side to avoid the lethal fire.

The next attack comes from above, only proceeded by a grunt of effort from the larger man Ace had noticed before. The man _threw a building at him_. Well then. Ace crouches, tracing and spreading a circle of fire around himself on the ground. He condenses and strengthens them until he can feel them clawing outwards and upwards from their position on the ground, from within himself-

They rocket upwards, a pillar of explosive, nearly white-hot fire, turning the thrown building into nothing more than flaming shrapnel. The burning pieces of wood and searingly hot glass rain down on the opposing pirates, one of them crying out as a larger beam caught him in the chest.

"Shit! Auger! Burgess! Don't butt in! You wouldn't stand a chance against him!" Teach orders. For the first time he looks concerned, like he's actually seriously considering the situation and realizing that his odds, while not unfavorable, aren't as assured as he may have liked.

"…Sorry," Burgess replies, clearly not happy with being ordered out of combat but acquiescing. Ace seizes the momentary distraction, not pausing between attacks, sending his trademark blast of fire at all of them, large enough to hit all five at once. The screams as the fire battered his opponents send a fierce surge of victorious joy through him.

The main target of the blow was Teach, and so it follows that he took the most damage. He collapses to the ground, writhing almost ridiculously in pain.

"Captain!" his crew calls to him, all less hurt, only brushed by the periphery of the attack.

"Sh-Shut up, guys, and stay back!" Teach orders. He struggles to laugh like he did before, confident. It comes off weak at best.

He pushes himself to his hands and knees, trying to stand. "…Shit," he mumbles, panting. He forces another laugh, seeming to be recovering. "Yeah, I know, Ace. You want to kill me. And you're not…wrong. Killing your own nakama is a big crime." Ace doesn't deign to respond. "I admit, I killed the fourth division commander, your _dear_ friend Thatch. I had no other choice." Teach forces himself to his feet, grin returning. "He'd gotten the devil fruit I wanted! You know the rules – anyone who found a fruit could eat it. Well, I'd memorized all of the fruit shapes listed in that reference book, so I _knew_ it was the fruit I'd been looking for." His posture is slumped, the blow clearly having done some lasting damage. "I was on Whitebeard's ship for _decades_ because I thought it'd give me the best chance of obtaining the fruit! If I never found it, I would have given up. But Thatch found it!"

"So that's the reason. All this time I'd wondered _why_ because damn if Thatch wasn't the nicest guy anybody'd ever met. But it wasn't for any fault of his, it was because _you couldn't bother to even __**ask**__ if you could have it before you __**murdered**__ him?!"_ Ace asks, voice raw with rage.

"Well, it was just a twist of fate. This ability chose me, Ace," Teach responds. He laughs. "And now, it's made me the strongest man on the seas! This fruit… It's the strongest of all the logias!" Black mist lifts from his form, seeming to absorb all light it comes in contact with. Teach's form seems to almost fade into it, like it's a part of him. He laughs again, confidence returned. "I am darkness!"

"Darkness?" Ace is slightly taken aback.

"That's right, _commander_ Ace!" Teach crows. "You can't kill me! They say this ability is the most powerful of all the devil fruits!"

An annoyed sigh. "You know, when I leant you that book, I expected you to _actually fucking read it, yoi."_

Teach and Ace both freeze, the unexpected voice even throwing off Teach's egocentric monologuing. Ace winces. "…Shit," he whispers. "I'm in so much trouble." Teach starts to turn, looking for the source of the voice, but no sooner had he lifted his foot than a heavy weight slams on him from above, smashing him to the ground.

Teach cries out as the talons pierce through his skin, puncturing effortlessly through flesh and muscle. There's a fatalistic crunch from his right shoulder as it crumples beneath the sheer force of the grip and Teach actually screams from that, right arm going limp.

Marco doesn't shift, leaving his feet as powerful talons, his arms as wings. His legs are bent slightly, crouching over Teach like an eagle, his eyes fierce and angry. In that moment, he really does seem more like the animalistic pseudo raptor of fantasy than the quiet, unflappable man Ace knew. There's no familiar softness, no give in his gaze as he stares down at Teach. He looks primal. Insatiable. Savage.

Sexy.

Ace viciously tries to scrub the thought from his mind. Now is most certainly _not_ the time for that kind of thinking. Teach whimpering again brought Ace's mind back to the moment, watching as Marco shifted his grip on Teach, but keeping his one foot still securely locked around the shattered shoulder.

"How?!" Teach mumbles into the dirt, his face pressed too hard into the ground for clear enunciation. His speech is strained with pain. Marco chuckles, tightening his grip another iota just to hear him whine.

"Well, you were too stupid and self-centered to wonder why, but did you ever notice there was a certain devil fruit _missing_ from that book?" Marco grins, releasing his foot from Teach's lower torso, wrapping it delicately around his head and driving it harder into the ground. "Don't make assumptions based on incomplete information, yoi. It'll get you killed." Teach's crew had been staring in awe and shock, but now Marco shifted his attention to them.

"Well, yoi? Are you going to try to defend your captain?" The hesitant silence is answer enough and Marco smiles. "Thought so. Get lost. I won't chase if you don't give me reason to." There must be something to seeing their self-proclaimed invincible captain bleeding on the ground that makes them scatter so quickly, but they're gone in moments. Marco's gaze shifts back to Teach. "Base your crew on loyalty, not power next time, and maybe you'll stand half a chance, yoi. Not that there will be a 'next time' for you." Marco smiles coldly. "You shouldn't have killed my best friend. You shouldn't have sullied Oyaji's name. And you _definitely_ shouldn't have threatened Ace. This is what defeat looks like, Teach. It's the only time you'll ever see it."

He clenches his grip on Teach's head, talons driving almost effortlessly through his skull.

Silence reigns.

"Marco…" Ace breathes, unsure of where to start. Marco's gaze snaps to him and he releases Teach's skull, shifting that talon back into a human foot. The right one is still gripping Teach's shoulder, still in bird form. His eyes dart back down to that foot.

"Dammit…" he mumbles. He flaps his wings and Ace wonders where in hell he's going, especially toting a body, but he doesn't actually lift it all the way off the ground, just pulls against gravity for a moment before resettling. "_Dammit!"_ he hisses again. Ace blinks, stares, uncomprehending, as Marco continues to tug the body this way and that, never going very far in any direction or gaining any altitude.

Realization is followed instantaneously by laughter.

Ace doubles over, clutching his stomach, feeling tears of relief and laughter streaming down his face. He can't breathe. He's laughing so hard he almost starts to feel lightheaded. He has to _sit down._

"You're," he manages to gasp out, only to collapse back into heaving bouts of laughter. "You're stuck!" he finally gasps out. Marco stops struggling to shoot him a venomous glare. Ace doesn't see it. His eyelids are squeezed shut, tears of laughter pressing through them anyway.

In the end, they just had to wait for Marco's adrenaline to settle somewhat before he was finally able to loosen the tendons enough to let go. Ace remained giggly for the entire time, Marco unable to do more than send reprimanding glares his way.

Finally, he does manage to tear loose, but no sooner is he free than he's back in bird form, pouncing on Ace and dragging him up into the sky. Ace, taken by surprise, is winded by the sudden grip around his torso. Marco's wings beat steadily, taking them aloft and east, if Ace isn't wrong.

"Wha-?! Where are you taking me? Marco! The Striker's still down there!" Marco doesn't respond and doesn't change course. They ascend until they're far, far above the world, Marco's wings shaping the air steadily to keep them progressing. Ace doesn't struggle. He trusts Marco not to drop him, but he doesn't put him above letting him freefall a few hundred feet before catching him if he's being a pain in the ass. So he remains still and waits.

_Probably taking me back to the Moby Dick,_ Ace grouses mentally. _Oh boy. A simultaneous chewing out from Marco _and_ Oyaji. Such fun._ As they continue to fly steadily eastward, Ace's mind wanders, recovering the events of the day. Teach is dead. It…It was all rather anti-climactic, really. It hadn't even been a fight. Marco had just…killed him. Teach deserved a helluva lot worse in Ace's eyes, and the darker corners of his mind had been looking forward to watching him burn to death. But Marco…Marco had just shown up and killed him. Easily. Teach hadn't stood a _chance._ It was almost _pathetic._

Ace had spent weeks looking for Teach. He'd finally found him. He'd been ready to stop him from causing even more damage to Ace's family, to Luffy. He'd been prepared to fight all-out, been ready to avenge Thatch's murder. And…all of those things had been accomplished, he supposed. He was still more than a little pissed off, though, now that he thought about it. Was it petty of him to wish he'd been the one to defeat Teach? Yup. But it didn't change the fact that he'd searched and worked for _weeks_ for that opportunity, only to be left with no real feeling of satisfaction, no personal victory. Who the hell was Marco to come in at the last second and make it look so _easy?_ That was Ace's fight. Marco had no right to butt in.

He stews in his frustration and dissatisfaction, mentally grumbling. It takes him longer than it should to realize they're descending. Once he does, he turns his gaze, long morphed into a glare at nothing in particular, to the island. He recognizes it.

It's one of the smaller islands under Whitebeard's control. The village there is agricultural, and if Ace remembers correctly it had been targeted by violent pirate groups for years because of its production of expensive, high-quality silks.

He doesn't give a rat's ass about that right now, though.

Marco is descending towards the large house that had been offered as a gift to the Whitebeard Pirates after the island had gained their protection. It has a large, courtyard-style garden that Marco's heading towards. The house is unoccupied, but the locals maintain it for them in the event that it should ever be of use to an expedition or something. The garden is well-maintained, a riot of colors glaring up from the flowerbeds between gravel paths. Paths which Marco is descending towards. Rather quickly.

"Oi, Marco, slow dow-!" Ace doesn't get to finish that statement as, with a flick of his ankles, Marco tosses him down onto the pathways below. The drop isn't far enough to be injurious and his logia type protects him from scrapes, but that doesn't mean it's fun. It's still jarring and disorienting and the moments of freefall are still instinctively terrifying. Ace pushes himself to his feet as Marco lands beside him and shifts back to human form. Ace snarls at him. "Hey, what in the hell was that-" Again, he's cut off before finishing his sentence. This time, Marco grabs his throat, slamming him back against a wall. Ace gasps, the air driven from his lungs. When he opens his eyes, Marco's glaring at him, blue eyes sharp as glass with rage. After a moment, Ace glares back.

"Well you know what? Fuck you too!" Ace snaps. Marco's grip on his throat isn't enough to limit his air supply, but it is unrelenting enough to keep him pinned against the wall.

Marco's face twists with rage and he rushes forward, smashing his mouth against Ace's. Ace kisses back with equal vehemence. Ace's hands twist in the fabric of Marco's shirt and Marco releases Ace's neck in favor of his hair. He drags his fingers through it roughly before grabbing a fistful of it, yanking Ace's head back so their mouths part. Ace gasps at the ache of it, but can't deny that he's panting and already half hard. They've been around this particular block before.

Ace's head is left tipped back, Marco breathing against his mouth. "You really think it's just fucking okay for you to run off like that?" he whispers, deadly. He bends his neck, sucking and licking viciously at the side of Ace's throat, all the way up from behind his ear down to the joint between neck and shoulder. Ace gasps, whimpering. Marco finds the familiar sensitive spot on Ace's left collarbone and bites down hard. Ace yelps, arching against him. _"I asked you a question,"_ Marco breathes against his neck, and _Jesus_, all Ace wants, needs, is more sensation, _please_. But still. He's not going to lose this one. He _knows_ he's not going to lose this one. Because he's actually _right_ this time. So he summons up the will and snaps back.

"For the right cause it is," he snips back. Marco glares at him, then unhesitatingly picks him up and slings him over his shoulder, heading inside the house. Ace doesn't struggle, but uses Marco's distraction to his advantage, pulling Marco's shirt up and dragging his fingers and mouth all down Marco's back, biting his shoulders, licking his way down Marco's spine… Marco does seem to lose his composure for a moment, halting halfway through a doorway, but resumes motion after a moment, and it's not long before Ace is flung off of Marco's shoulder, his back colliding with the soft give of a mattress.

Marco's hovering over him no more than three seconds later, shirt gone, hands supporting his weight on either side of Ace's head. They're glaring at each other again, but when Marco's eyes dart to his lips, Ace seizes the distraction to wrap his arms around Marco's neck and drag him down, crashing their lips together. This kiss is just as furious and violent as the last, only now Marco's hands are wandering over his chest, kneading, pressing, dragging, pinching, twisting. Ace finally lets his head fall back with a breathless moan.

"It was not fucking okay," Marco said, trailing off momentarily to suck harshly at one of Ace's nipples, one hand pinching the other, "for you to go after Teach on your own." Ace groans, Marco's other hand beginning to work at the buckles, button, and zipper holding his shorts on.

Ace grabs a fistful of Marco's hair, dragging him to the side and unbalancing him enough to flip their positions. He doesn't beat around the bush, one hand already palming Marco expertly through the fabric of his pants, leaving Marco momentarily unable to retaliate.

"You don't get to tell me what I can and cannot fucking do," he pants, using his other hand to undo Marco's sash, letting it fall to the mattress, instantly moving on to opening his pants. He pulls them and Marco's underwear down and Marco kicks them off. He's back in the game by now, unbuckling Ace's belt and dragging his shorts over his hips. Ace lifts his hips, letting them fall off and away, now just as bare as Marco.

Marco grabs his bicep and forcibly wrestles them so that Ace is lying face down. He grabs his wrists, pinning them behind his back, and binds them there with the blue sash. "That doesn't mean you get to do whatever the fuck you please," Marco snarls, slapping Ace's ass. Ace's breath catches in his throat, his dick twitching against the mattress. Fucking Marco knowing all his kinks. "You're not invincible, Ace!" Marco punctuates his statement with another slap, and Ace groans involuntarily.

Ace twists and rolls so that he's face up, sitting up through abs strength alone, and kisses Marco in all the ways he knows he loves. He pushes him back until Marco's the one laying on his back. He kisses his way down Marco's torso, unafraid of using teeth whenever the hell he feels like it. Biting at Marco's hipbones, looking up at him lasciviously, has Marco growling possessively, one of his hands tangling in Ace's hair, dragging him closer to where he really wants him. Ace indulges him to a point, licking a long, wet stripe up Marco's cock before speaking against it, letting the air of his words stimulate him further. "That doesn't mean I need to be fucking saved all the time, either!" He takes Marco into his mouth, relaxing his throat to take him all the way to the hilt. Marco groans, throwing his head back, as Ace pulls off, sucking hard all the way. "I'm not a child! I can fight my own goddamned battles! It was _my fight_ and I didn't need your help! You had no right to interfere!" Marco uses his grip on Ace's hair to drag him in for a kiss, uncaring of the taste of precome in his mouth.

He slams Ace's back into the mattress, mindful of the arms pinned beneath him. Ace gasps, breaking the kiss and staring up at Marco defiantly. Lustfully. Marco hitches one of Ace's legs over his shoulder, his other hand rubbing at Ace's chest. "You can fight your own battles when they're battles you can actually win! But that's no excuse for suicide by someone else's hand!" He drags his hand up from Ace's chest to his face and, mindful of what's being asked of him, Ace takes three into his mouth, sucking on them, but also allowing himself the satisfaction of biting them, just to watch Marco growl. After a moment, Marco drags them out of Ace's mouth, bringing them to his entrance.

He pushes one in, slowly but unrelentingly, until it's seated all the way inside. He starts twisting and thrusting it, beginning to loosen Ace up. Ace groans, throwing his head back. Marco adds another soon, scissoring and stretching him. Ace is already breathless, but when Marco, already knowing where it is, presses and rubs deliberately against his prostate, Ace arches his back off the bed, keening. "If it had been any other devil fruit I would have had complete faith in your ability to defeat him. But that one, in particular, makes its user far more durable than other logia types. You couldn't have won, Ace! I have faith in you, but I'm not blind to reality!" Marco withdraws his fingers, positioning himself in front of Ace's entrance. He looks up at Ace, who gives a breathless nod, before pushing in.

Ace moans as Marco settles into him, toes curling, fingers tangling in the sheets beneath him. Marco lets him hang there, panting, for only a moment before beginning to move. He doesn't go easy. He pounds into Ace ferociously, one hand gripping Ace's hip, pulling him onto him even as he thrusts, the other hand pinning Ace's leg on his shoulder, maintaining the delicious angle. He knows that from this angle he isn't directly hitting Ace's prostate, but brushing only agonizingly close to it, maddeningly near. Ace tries to writhe his hips, tilt them slightly so that Marco will actually _hit_ that wonderful place inside him, but to no avail. Marco's grip on his hips is unrelenting, and despite all the twisting of his torso he can move to no more satisfying angle.

"Fuck you, Marco, _come ON!"_ Ace whines, arching his back. With all his twisting, he feels the sash around his arms loosening. To his chagrin, Marco doesn't shift the angle.

He stops moving at all.

"No! Don't you _fucking dare!"_ Ace snarls. He was so close, so _close-_

"If you want something, maybe you should ask for it," Marco says nonchalantly. Ace's eyes narrow.

Hands still bound, Ace wraps the leg that's on Marco's shoulder around the side of his neck and with one bodily heave, throws them both rolling to the side, extracting his leg from Marco's shoulder and straddling him instead.

Unhesitatingly, he raises himself nearly all the way off of Marco before slamming back down at full force, deliciously impaling himself. He twists his arms free of the sash, letting it fall away, and brings his hands up to Marco's chest, dragging his nails over firm muscle. Marco moans and Ace repeats the process, setting the rhythm and angle himself, dragging blunt nails all over Marco's torso.

"You don't know for sure that I was going to lose!" Ace cuts himself off, moaning deeply as Marco thrusts up to meet him. "I might have won! You can't claim to _know_ how that battle was going to end!" He lifts one hand from Marco's chest, slapping him hard across the face, the other thumbing roughly over Marco's nipple. "You didn't even give me a _chance_, even after all the effort I'd gone to to hunt Teach down!" Marco sits up so they're face to face, grabbing Ace's hips, stilling him. He kisses him harshly, biting his lips, nearly choking him with his tongue. Marco stands, Ace wrapping his legs around Marco's waist as a precaution, but it's unnecessary, Marco's grip on his ass is nearly bruising.

He slams Ace's back into a wall, thrusting hard up into him in the same motion. Ace almost screams, parting their mouths to try to _breathe_, somehow, through the sheer force of sensation from that one slamming thrust. His nails drag down Marco's back in a short, sharp motion, leaving bright red marks in their wake. Marco slams into him again and stars dance in front of Ace's eyes as he struggles to grip anything, anything at all, to anchor himself in this reality. One hand ends up tangled in Marco's hair, pulling at it and scratching at his scalp, the other dragging more angry red lines across Marco's back. Ace couldn't argue anymore if he _tried_. Wanton moans spill non-stop from his mouth, any concept of language completely blanked out from his mind.

Marco slams violently into him once more and that's it, Ace is gone, mind filled with nothing but pure ecstasy, his head throwing back against the wall, pure satisfaction and pleasure opening his expression, drawing a stream of noises and non-words from his mouth, coming hard against both of their torsos.

By the time he comes down into some semblance of functionality again, Marco has come too, his thrusts stilled, his face buried in Ace's shoulder as he gasps desperately for air. They hang there for a moment, both struggling for oxygen and sanity, silent save for their gasping.

Marco carries Ace back to the mussed bed, pulling back the covers and laying him on the sheets before collapsing into it himself. He draws the blanket over both of them, neither of them caring about much of anything at the moment except the exhaustion. Sleep is the primary objective and nothing will keep either of them from it for long. Ace snuggles into Marco, laying his head on his chest, still marked with those angry red furrows. He can hear Marco's still-accelerated heartbeat, as well as feel the rise and fall of his too fast breathing. His own pulse and breathing aren't any better, though, so he can't exactly comment. Marco's hand traces soft, nonsense patterns on Ace's back and Ace sighs contentedly, tipping his head to kiss the side of Marco's neck softly, innocently.

"…I can't stand the thought of losing you," Marco murmurs softly. Ace, almost asleep, barely catches the words, but rouses himself to hear the rest of them. Marco's fingers continue to move delicately over his skin. "You mean everything to me, Ace. Losing you would…it would destroy me." He breathes deeply, pressing a kiss into Ace's hair. "You're right. I didn't give you a chance to fight Teach. I knew he was a powerful opponent and I couldn't be sure you were going to win. I couldn't risk it. I _couldn't_, Ace. He'd already killed Thatch-" Marco's voice cracked and it took him a moment to continue speaking. "He'd already killed Thatch, and I knew he wouldn't hesitate to kill you, if he had the opportunity. I couldn't lose anything else, not so soon, and not to the same man. I couldn't lose the person I love to the man who'd taken my best friend. So I removed the possibility of you losing from the equation." He's quiet for a long moment, his hand pausing on Ace's back. "…But you're right, it's not fair of me to fight for you, or to patronize you by keeping you out of battle. I'm…I'm not sorry for killing Teach even if by rights that battle should have been yours. If the same scenario were to occur again, I would follow the same course of action. But that being said, I promise not to encroach on your battles in the future unless it's clear through the actual action of that battle that you're going to lose. I won't watch you die over your pride, Ace, because you refuse to accept my help in a desperate situation. But I promise not to jump to conclusions before it's fair to do so. Is that…Is that okay with you?"

Ace snuggled further into Marco's side, smiling. He hmmed agreement into Marco's shoulder. "That's fair," Ace murmured. "And I forgive you for killing Teach. So we're…we're good now, right?" Ace tipped his head to look up at Marco. Marco smiled and kissed his forehead.

"Right," he mumbled into his hairline.

"And Marco?" Ace asked.

"Yeah?"

"Do your feet really get stuck when you grab stuff as a bird?" Marco sighed.

"Ace?"

"Yeah?"

"Go the fuck to sleep."

* * *

Did I do it? Did I actually write successful angry smut? I don't even know. I can't look at this anymore. Also: I NEVER WRITE IN THE PRESENT TENSE, SO IF I FUCKED UP AND THERE'S SOME PAST TENSE VERBS IN THERE I'M SORRY. Yeah. So…hope you didn't hate it. I dunno. Fighting. The prompt never really lit me up, but…yeah. Here's what I did with it. There was both some actual fighting and some verbal fighting while sexytimes fighting. Is that good enough? No? Welllllllllllllllll….uh… *hides* I do have an idea for the next prompt, though! It's going to be a longer piece, though, so it may take me a while to write, what with school being a thing again.

**NOTE:** Raptor's feet actually do lock up when they grab stuff. The tendons in their legs that allow them to pull their talons closed are kind of…ribbed, and the sheaths they fit in are kind of inversely ribbed, so when they tighten their talons to a certain point they kind of lock closed. This is helpful because then they don't have to put in additional effort to keep their talons closed that tightly. Only downside? They can't get them to open again until they've calmed down and subconsciously relaxed the sheaths around the tendons. Look it up, it's actually crazy cool.

So yeah. Bye. I'll go back under that rock. Maybe leave a review to tell me if I wrote successful smuts?


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